


Wolf & Raven

by Windwyrm



Series: Wolf & Raven [5]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: ( All androids are neurodivergent ), ( NSFW CHAPTERS TAGS : ), ( Sex is a weird mix of vanilla and outlandish - I will not tag everything ), ( ahhh my two fetishes... ), Angst with a Happy Ending, Autistic Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Bottom Hank Anderson, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Communication, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) is Bad at Feelings, Consent, Demisexuality, Elijah Kamski Being Elijah Kamski, Elijah Kamski Redemption, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Good Elijah Kamski, Hank Anderson and Connor Live Together, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, Idiots in Love, Ken Doll Android Anatomy | Androids Have No Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), Minor Character Death, Murder, Murder Mystery, Neurodiversity, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Other, POV Connor (Detroit: Become Human), POV Hank Anderson, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Slow Burn, Switch Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Switch Hank Anderson, Top Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Trans Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Transhumanism, Unconditional Love, now here come the ship tags choo choo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:01:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 44
Words: 90,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24452533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windwyrm/pseuds/Windwyrm
Summary: To say the Detroit PD is having a peculiar month would be describing any month of its existence. But it's safe to say, in that weird spot between androids asking for rights and the government beginning to care, the month is being particularly peculiar, as androids begin turning up killed on purpose in what appears to be a game of cat and mouse with the law and its gray areas.Counting their brief but unique experience with the deviancy cases, Lt Anderson and Connor are the first choice in navigating this maze. But instead of finding solutions, they find parts of themselves they'd rather leave buried.And amidst it all, Elijah Kamski is dragged face to face with his shortcomings in the android projects.( Canon compliant on the "everyone lives - Connor deviates" path. Murder mystery in the classic sense. Romance goes hand in hand but the pure fluff/NSFW chapters are marked by a * and skippable without losing vital clues. Not really fetish heavy. )( Please read the notes on the first chapter for a more detailed list of warnings etc. If you give it a go, hope you enjoy. )( Please bear in mind this is basically an alpha version that will be brought in line and edited for homogenous quality later )
Relationships: Connor & North (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson & Elijah Kamski, Hank Anderson/Connor
Series: Wolf & Raven [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1766134
Comments: 174
Kudos: 144





	1. Murder Date (1st case)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you embark on this journey, there are a few content warnings I'd like to put forward, either to not waste your time, or so you can mind your well-being and avoid uncomfortable elements, if applicable. As follows,  
>   
> The tone of the story is a bit heavy at times, and the topics are, while in line with what's in the game, expanded. Thus:  
> \- It's a murder mystery. There are dead androids, graphically but not over the top described. Injury to androids as well.  
> \- There is racism towards the androids. While it's not a topic I dwell too much on, it's mentioned, with paralells drawn to real world racism at times.  
> \- The side characters are from various walks of life. Middle class, or rich, or poor, or drug addicts, or hoarders, or gang members, or mentally ill, or living in horrible situations. I wanted a colorful set of NPCs and I sure as hell went for it. They're not shamed or blamed, rather, they just exist. As they do in real life.  
> \- Hank's depression, suicidal tendencies, alcoholism, past, and assorted issues are front and center. He's better off by the end of the fic but not without struggle. I also gave him some trust issues, because I went with the interpretation that his relationship crumbled long before he lost his son.  
> \- Connor has some issues. A lot of issues. Some PTSD over Amanda and related stuff (losing control, mind control, having no agency, etc).  
> \- While not a major-major part of the story, it's a heavy topic - North's experience is also touched upon. It may be a sensitive subject to some that she carries memories of it and is distrustful of humans. Part of her issues make their way onto Connor and his expectations on human intimacy. No graphic rape or abuse in the narrative but heavy implications that it's a real thing that really happens.  
> \- Speaking of sex, the chapters are marked and skippable. The sex is a mix of vanilla and exotic (bondage, roleplay, mostly). You will -not- find the usual scenarios the fandom is fond of - DD/lb, noncon/dubcon, incest-/ageplay, twink/bear dynamics, stiff gender or bedroom roles - so depending on what you are looking for, you will either have no use of this fic or enjoy the change of pace. Consent and communication may be my fetishes and thus maybe a little overdone compared to most erotica.  
> \- Connor ended up as a heavy allegory to experiences of some female-to-male transgender individuals: thinks of himself as a male, looks and acts as a male, but is however missing male parts and experiencing some form of dysphoria in certain scenarios. It's less "he has a vagina that shouldn't be there" and more "he has a nothing men should have something", and compensates with addons to 'be as expected', but the allegory is absolutely heavily there, so I embraced it once I noticed it. I don't expect to please anyone but myself with this particular element of the story, but you're welcome on the ride, and I hope you enjoy it, be you a dysphoric transgender individual hoping for representation, a non-bottom-dysphoric transgender individual just browsing the trans tag curious about variations on the topic, or a not-at-all transgender individual that might get some insight on how dysphoria works.  
> All in all, it's probably not as bad as I make it sound, but I know what it's like to be sucker punched by a topic you'd prefer you have nothing to do with ever again, so I wanted to leave a heads up. I hope you enjoy the journey.  
> 

_It’s been about three weeks, maybe a little over that, now._

_Many… most… humans have decided to haul ass in either way the four winds blow. Not because the atmosphere has been that turbulent, mind you. But humans hate change. Most hated having to adapt to a world where walking computers needed to suddenly be acknowledged as living, breathing beings. Figuratively speaking._

_Others? Well, for others the idea of having to leave their home city won the hatred olympics. True to the American spirit, if tornadoes and wildfires barely put a dent in our freedom, well… despite what decades of sci-fi novels would tell you, a robot revolution has no chance to make them give much of a fuck, either. It’s safe to say the American people are not an endangered species in Detroit even now._

_On the streets, deviants and androids are now synonymous, and no longer much of a novelty anymore. And after the collapse of Cyberlife as a business, the streets are where most androids have been officially stuck. And speaking of officially, they very much still are a threat to national security on that level. Somehow._

_Legally? Well, legally, they’re not even real._

_But hey, highlight is, this is a record low time for homicides for the county._  
  


“Impressive monologue, Lieutenant Anderson. It almost addressed my query.”

“Shut up and drive, smartass.”

Connor turned his apparent attention back to the road.

Blank expression, not blinking, not even breathing, barely ever moving his hands to readjust the aging car’s trajectory. His corners were obnoxiously smooth, and he had this uncanny ability to calculate the cruising speed in such a way that he had barely hit any lights throughout the whole trip. His movements were still unnaturally stiff, unnaturally precise, although by now Hank had gotten accustomed to most of the android’s peculiarities. 

Alright, that last part had to be one of his shittiest lies.

Hank shifted in the seat, pointing out the windshield. “That wooden broken-down fence is-”

“I know, Lieutenant,” Connor stated blankly, already slowing the car down.

“Right. Yeah. ‘Course you do.”

Connor canted his head slightly, before turning to face Hank. “I do appreciate the help, however,” and once having spoken, he tentatively raised one side of his mouth in a stupid ass smile.

“Just park,” Hank muttered, hand already pulling on the handle.

“As you say, Lieutenant.”

As it were, Hank could at least appreciate the android’s indifferent responses to pretty much anything even slightly redundant.  
  


Hank stepped out of the car, tugging at the sides of his jacket, and made his way towards the unkempt fence, pausing to wait for Connor. He sure was taking his sweet time leaving the car and fixing his tie and the black jacket he had opted on wearing. The tight fitting black pants and obnoxiously lacquered leather shoes wouldn’t much survive in the vast wilderness of the suburbs, but Connor had been adamant in dressing fancy for his first murder date this side of the revolution.

“Come on,” Hank nodded his head towards the open gate. Not that it had much choice in the matter, between the single screw still holding it up, and the overgrown grass in front of it.

“This house is listed as abandoned for five years and seven months.”

“Mmyeah. Great place for junkies and homeless to squat.”

Connor did not offer any acknowledgement, lost in admiring the crumbling façade. Finally, he turned towards the man, “So then, is the victim a junkie or homeless?”

“Homeless is my guess. You’ll see soon enough. Bet you’ll run him through your fancy database, confirm this for the rest of us.”

He fixed his tie. “Of course, Lieutenant.” As if either of them could truly fool themselves his nosy research had ever been optional.

Some paces in, Connor came to a halt, eyeing a lonely evidence marker. Expressionless, he resumed his stiff forward-facing pose, and resumed walking towards the crumbling house. He barely turned his head towards Hank as he inquired, “What am I doing here, Lieutenant? We both know civilians are not allowed to visit crime scenes or tamper with evidence unless they are next of kin to the victim. You could have brought photographs home for me to analyze, once again. Appears to have worked well the last three times.”

“First, that did not officially happen.”

“Noted.”

“Second, Fowler wanted you on the case,” Hank stated. “Well,” he swiftly interjected before Connor had a chance to voice his confusion, “I pulled a favor.”

“Let me guess. That favor included some strong wording and breaking a law or two.”

Hank’s only answer was a nonchalant shrug. He hunched over as he pushed the creaking heavy wooden door and entered, propping it open with his shoe. “It’s not like the officers in homicide were fighting over this case.”

“Why so?”

With a lopsided smile and crossing his arms, Hank leaned against the door, accepting the loud creak as criticism for him tempting fate. He gestured widely towards the single disaster of a room that the house consisted of. “I’ll see if you can figure it out.”

Fixing his tie, Connor stepped over the dilapidated threshold, stilling entirely as his eyes quickly scanned the rotten floor. It had taken less than a second before he continued through the room with a straight back and a steady gait. He came to a halt a few calculated footsteps in, once more stiffening entirely. Only his eyes darted over the surroundings, from one end to another of the room. Narrowing his eyes briefly, he turned on his heels, presumably repeating the same process for the other half of the room.

Hank shifted his weight, crossing his arms, eyeing the android with intrigue.

He had looked by himself, searched the entire haphazard mess, and so had Chris upon request. So had an entire team of uniforms, and while their collective efficiency compared to Connor’s was up for debate, their pairs of eyes and hands still outnumbered his. All things considered, the detective had a hunch that despite Connor’s entire raison d’être and track record, he would not quite miraculously crack this one.

And his sentiment seemingly echoed in Connor’s disposition. With one more scan of the room, he turned towards Hank, his eyes narrowed. A slight frown, a fleeting pursing of his lips, and he broke eye contact again, scanning the room once more in the same fashion. A complete circle once more achieved, he canted his head ever so slightly, his eyes fixed upon the lifeless corpse on the pile of clothes and trash, and once more, the android stilled entirely.

A couple seconds later, his eyes narrowed further, and his voice came off aggravated as he spoke with an ever so slight twitch in the corner of his mouth. “There is no forensic evidence.” 

“Mhm,” Hank murmured with an absent nod at the rather predictable verdict.

Connor turned his head to face him, brow furrowing further. “And the victim is an android.”


	2. Crackhouse (1st case)

“It’s a VX500. That is all I can tell you for certain now.” His gaze, raised brows and all, met Hank’s. “I could-”

“No, I know what you’re offering, and that’s a no.”

Connor must’ve been on his merry way mastering the art of human communication, because Hank could’ve sworn his expression perfectly translated to the most savage ‘suit yourself’ he had ever witnessed. The android turned his attention back towards the motionless form on the floor. “He has been stabbed.”

“Yeah, I could tell that. Twenty-eight times?”

“No, seve-- oh.” Connor methodically turned his head towards the man, with a deadpan expression and a firm nod. “Highly amusing, Lieutenant.” And with all that enthusiasm preserved, he returned his attention towards the crime scene.

“What’s seven stab wounds in android terms?”

“It depends on the model and the weapon. And the parts you hit.” He turned his left palm upwards, frowning at it momentarily before clenching it into a fist and relaxing it again. His gaze returned to the victim. “Get lucky and hit a thirium pump, that’s one. Hit an arm or a hand? Even there you could get lucky and hit some of the larger tubing, could still cause enough thirium leak to cause serious damage.” He paused to gesture towards the lifeless android. “This model and those hits? I would say, it only really needed the one to the pump regulator.” He tapped himself on the sternum. “That would be enough to cause a critical leak.”

With a tilt of his head, Hank pondered the words. He leaned his head back against the door, eyeing the grime-sodden wooden ceiling. “So what of the rest? Can you tell the order?” His gaze wandered towards the android. “The time of death? Anything of the sort?”

Connor offered a frown instead of an answer. He turned his head slightly in Hank’s direction, but his eyes were still fixed on the murder victim. “The thirium mostly evaporated. Judging by the mass and composition of the residue, and accounting for the atmospheric conditions over the past few days, I would approximate it to four days ago.” His gaze finally parted with the victim and met Hank’s, as he offered rather courteously, “That’s my best approximation.”

“Better than any of us have guessed.” he shrugged. “What about the murder weapon?”

“Most likely a hunting knife. But it’s not here.”

“It’s not?” Surprise had gotten the best of the detective. He straightened his back, nodding his head towards one side of the room, “There are dozens of knives and screwdrivers and makeshift shivs and whatsits lying around.”

“It’s none of them.”

“Mm-hmh,” Hank nodded, clicking his tongue. “None of the boys could figure out which it was, but you’ve explained before that..,” he spun a hand in a circle, as if grasping for the right words, “That thirium becomes invisible to human eyes after a while.” He crossed his arms again. “I was hoping you could pick up on that.”

“I can. None of the objects here have traces of thirium other than splatters. None look like they could actually penetrate the hull and biocomponents and cause this damage.” He canted his head to punctuate his assessment. 

Hank shifted his weight. “Alright… Why’s it missing?” He finally parted with his perch, carefully making his way closer to Connor’s position. Any attempt to recreate the android’s flawless path was comically pointless, however, and he soon conceded to the creaking floorboards. “To dispose of evidence, obviously. Prints, perhaps a unique feature on the knife.”

“Highly likely,” Connor spoke, although his voice had trailed off, as had his gaze, and the slight, lopsided frown returned. “But it does not add up.”

“Why not?”

“No relevant fingerprints.”

“House’s a shithole. Our guys don’t even know where to start looking. And yet, you discarded everything.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  


Without a shift in his position, Connor raised his hand and gestured towards his left. “Drug paraphernalia, old, broken. Precedes this by a long time, judging by the grime and dust.” He then began covering the room pointing in a clockwise direction. “Two sets of clothes, moldy, female, smaller size, yet again too old. Not the victim’s and most likely not the killer’s. Makeshift kitchen set up by a squatter, portable gas burner is the newest one and it’s a seventeen year old model and by the dirt around it, has not been touched in a while. Butter knives, too dull to inflict any damage to an android’s hull. Mattress and blankets, have been untouched for months judging by the dust accumulation. Clutter by the door is mostly old wood, highly likely gathered for a fire. Stacked on top of a portable freezer, which I would date around the same as the rest of the kitchen setup. That’s all that isn’t masonry fragments, animal bones, discarded wrappers, or mold buildup.”

Hank had been idly pacing around the corpse, hands behind his back, following Connor’s assessments, his eyes tracking the objects in question. No lie, he felt a little redundant, his day’s work disproven and discarded so nonchalantly. With the pause finally presented, he stopped walking and interjected. “Fingerprints. You ignored those too. We collected some sets.”

“Two hundred thirteen unique sets are present. they range from years old and untouched since, and more recent and smudged in the high traffic areas,” he pointed towards a double window, broken. “Accounting for wear and age, and the amount of dust particles covering them, the most recent prints present inside are still several months old.” Hank glanced towards the window frame, “Huh.” His eyes absently traced the finely sculpted frame, upwards and towards the support beams which, too, were sculpted. No miraculous evidence would jump from between them, despite their fantastic nature. But he’d be damned if he could tell their history by dust and wear alone, other than ‘really fucking old’.

Connor had to have been wrong, there was no way nothing was usable in this entire mess. He had brought the android along hoping for him to work his magic once more, and instead, he had taken to dismissing everything. He turned to face Connor.

“Something happened to stop the humans from using this place,” the android offered as if on cue. He made a wide gesture that encompassed the entire room. “The lack of obvious human activity over the past few months could indicate androids may have been squatting here for some time. Drug addicts would fear all possible outcomes of approaching them.”

Hank nodded. “So, you think android squatters argued with each other and one ended up dead?”

There was a slight pause, after which Connor pressed his lips together. He looked down at the victim. “No. No, it does not look like an android attack. Androids are very efficient, and aware of each other’s weak points. I would say if two androids tried to kill each other, there would definitely be the single mortal wound.”

“Dunno, Connor. I’ve seen you fight androids and I’d say it gets quite messy.”

The statement had put a break to Connor’s roll. He pursed his lips, frowning slightly, his overworking LED a good indication of his inner reaction. He turned to look at Hank, offering him a likely sarcastic smile. “Your criticism has been noted, Lieutenant. I shall add a request for a choreography update to my self improvement program.”

Licking his lips in an attempt to bury his inappropriately timed smile, Hank resumed pacing. “I’ll give it this. Dead androids don’t smell nearly as bad as dead humans.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Connor stated casually. “I have no sense of smell.”

Hank turned towards him, nodding once. “You know... Somehow, I knew you’d say exactly that,” he stated, his gaze trailing off absently once more, tracing the carved support beams. Birds, heavily stylized. Pretty, in a kitsch way… But, irrelevant to the problems at hand.

  


Breaking the suddenly set stillness, Hank walked closer to the action once more, crouching next to Connor, eyeing the victim. His hands together, his fingers crossed, pointers together and directed at the body. He gestured silently with them, pressing his lips together. With a sigh, he turned his head to look at Connor as he spoke. “Something’s bothering you. It’s been bothering me the whole day.”

Not gracing him with an answer, Connor kept glancing around the room, with his signature furrow ever present on his brow. “Something is off… but… not in a quantifiable way.”

The detective offered a single shouldered shrug. “Gut feeling?”

“That is a human term. It occurs when the subconscious mind picks up on certain things that the conscious mind does not.” Connor joined in the crouching tradition, eyeing the body with what resembled mild distress. “I should not encounter that type of failure.”

“Maybe your script isn’t connecting the dots, either.”

“It would help if I had more information.”

They both eyed the lifeless body in silence. 

“Fine,” Hank responded to an unspoken request, propping himself up against his legs and standing up. “I’ll look the other way. Do your fucking thing.”

The damned support beams sure proved a fascinating distraction, on this wonderful day. Perhaps they’d impar their secrets. The odds of that were about as good as anything else in the room suddenly providing an answer. No matter, Connor would soon offer his.

“Thirium was designed to serve an almost identical role to blood. It carries information, and its chemical composition is altered to reflect status modifications within biocomponents.”

So far so good.

“There is a compound that is released into the stream upon encountering stressful situations and it has the role of facilitating quicker response times at the cost of overtaxing the components - a compound not dissimilar cortisol in humans and animals. This sample is missing it.”

Hank narrowed his eyes as he did a double take. Looking over his shoulder, he inquired, “So, he had no idea he was dying?”

Still crouched next to the body, wiping his hand on a tissue, Connor replied, “Perhaps he trusted the assailant until the first hit.” He, too, stood up, still wiping his hand. Balling the tissue up, he gestured towards the body with his empty hand. “The splatter patterns indicate he has been killed in this exact position.”

“Perhaps while asleep? Or… in standby… What the fuck ever.”

“Also a possibility.”

Connor may just as well have been pointing at an exact copy of the Mona Lisa lovingly rendered in traces of chemicals for all he could visually tell. But there was no reason to doubt the information. It had been accurate in the past.

Fixing the cuffs on his jacket, Connor paced around the body, coming to a halt in a new place. “The first strike had to have been the one to the thirium pump regulator, that is the one that inflicted critical damage. The rest are more minor, they would have force started the system in emergency mode. They must have been inflicted afterwards, after the critical damage.”

“Good… Good. That’s great.” Turning around and walking closer to the victim, Hank inspected the scene again. “That’s a good start.”

“I don’t know why you are this thrilled, Lieutenant. It was an obvious conclusion once we had the correct information.”

“Oh, yeah, simple…” Hank scoffed with a slight roll of his eyes. “A toddler could’ve solved it.”

  


Silence set over the room once more. The detective idly rubbed his chin while pondering the options. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start. Wounds inflicted after a fatal one usually meant strong emotions. Heat of the moment, anger, perhaps. Fear? It was common, but it was something.

No forensic evidence, no weapon… Could’ve meant anything. Gloves. Android. Who the fuck could tell anymore? But years of experience made him lean towards the obvious choice.

“Say you’re a meth head. You come in, see an android sleeping on the floor. You stab him, luck out, hit an important circuit or whatever, but have no idea. You keep stabbing.”

“I don’t think that’s likely.”

Of course. “Why not?”

“The odds of hitting a vital biocomponent with enough force to cause critical damage, and all by coincidence, are extremely low. A lot more likely it was done purposefully by somebody who knows robotics or has worked with androids. Or is an android, but that does not explain the chaotic nature of the subsequent stabbing.”

“Right. So maybe our killer is either an android pretending to be a human, or a human pretending to be an android.”

“Yes. Wait. No… What?”

“Too chaotic to be an android, but too little biological evidence to be a human. It could be something trying to use the gimmicks of the other, to throw investigation off.”

Connor’s brow twitched in a furrow. He stilled completely, staring blankly at the floor. Another frown before he shook his head. “That’s not right.” Suddenly, he spun on his heels, beginning to pace, raising a hand to eye level in the beginning of a gesture, cut short by whatever processes were running through his systems. “This is wrong. There should have been some highly likely option detected by now.”

With a shrug, Hank spoke reassuringly. “Both seem plausible to me. They are not mutually exclusive. And both could be wrong.”

In visible distress, Connor shook his head. “Everything I’ve pieced together ultimately makes no sense. Not as a whole. There’s something I’m missing. There’s something we’re both missing, you said so yourself.”

“Connor, stop,” the man interjected. “I didn’t bring you here expecting you to snap your fingers and solve the murder. I wanted a second opinion, and yours was intriguing to say the least, but you do not have to solve the case now. We’re still waiting on the print results and whatnot, maybe that sheds some light.”

His voice trailed off.

In retrospect, it was obvious.

The android had probably not been designed with the possibility of failure in mind. The concentrated essence of the programmers’ hubris must have been at the center of Connor’s entire design. The dream investigator that could never miss a clue, never fail to piece the puzzle together, never have to wait on further clues or lab results or second opinions. Truth was, no matter how intelligent or adaptive, no one, not even a machine, could form a complete picture from nothing.

As for the distress?

Perhaps it had less to do with Connor’s personality quirks and more to do with the fact that somewhere within him still survived the line of code stating failure meant deactivation.

Employing a tried and true tactic for all technology, Hank gave Connor’s shoulder one firm, heavy pat. “Alright.” His hand slid down Connor’s arm and grabbed. “C’mon.”

Temporarily interrupted from his existential crisis, Connor turned his head in Hank’s general direction. “What are you doing, Lieutenant?”

“We’re leaving.”

“But-”

The detective’s aggravation had finally seeped through his composure, obvious in his sneer, tangible in his tone. “There is no protocol, no nothing, settled for android murders so far. You’ve found plenty of stuff we’ve missed. You’re just gonna keep looking until you crash your system or whatever…”

“I wouldn’t crash over-”

Still holding onto Connor’s arm with one hand, Hank gestured an over the top invitation with the other. “Car. Go.”

  
  


As Hank peeled out of the parking spot, the dumbest pavlovian reflex he had developed over the years hit him full force as his body immediately decided it was hungry. He’d deal with that later, though. Irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. He pursed his lips, shooting a glance in Connor’s direction.

Brow still furrowed, now rolling his coin over his knuckles, it would appear he hadn’t been relieved at all by the change of scenery.

And indeed, he soon chose to voice his turmoil.

“I apologize for my suboptimal performance, Lieutenant.”

“No, no. It’s on me. Shouldn’t have taken you there… Didn’t realize it’d cause you this much distress.”

“It shouldn’t have. I don’t know what happened. It just… It hasn’t been a seamless transition since they severed my connection to their centralized information database. I’ve been worse at organizing and researching information.”

And worse at reacting to it, Hank had noticed, but he couldn’t even begin to comprehend the phenomenon of suddenly waking up, a fully functional being, in a fully formed world out to get you. Even if Connor had performed almost flawlessly before, he was allowed to fumble around all things considered.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re right. I think there is a catch to it. We’ll figure it out.” With that, he offered the android a smile. “Now, how about you put it out of your mind?”

“Readjusted priorities. What are you planning to get for dinner?”

Dumbfounded, Hank narrowed his eyes. “How the fuck?”

“You consumed 1032 calories less than your average daily intake, you have not eaten anything in at least six hours seventeen minutes, and we are approaching the usual time window you have dinner at.”

Ah great, he’d traded the weirdness of the crime scene for brand new and exciting weirdness. And he was quite certain his expression encompassed the true essence of his ‘what the fuck’ as he looked at Connor.

With a lopsided smile, the android offered on a dry tone. “I heard your stomach growl a couple minutes ago, I actually don’t have the slightest idea how much you’ve eaten today.”

Without a word, Hank eyed Connor up and down in complete disbelief. And he returned the look, perfectly still and deadpan.

With a shake of his head, Hank slouched into the seat, muttering a Jesus Fuck under his breath.

“Hey, Connor?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t try ‘joking’ ever again.”

Connor, back to his default deadpan expression, eyed him quietly for a couple seconds. Another tiny smile formed in the corner of his mouth as he turned to look out the window. “I have noted your suggestion and elected to completely ignore it.”


	3. Homey Joint

The small restaurant was quiet and empty apart from one bickering couple in the back. Its brickwork preserved that fresh bread scent, and that warmth so characteristic to small family-run restaurants that serve everything from burgers to stuffed swans or whatever.

Connor had opted following him inside, but then again, Connor always opted to follow him everywhere. And follow he did, walking stiffly, hands behind his back, a neutral expression on his face.

Hank, however, walked towards the bar as if he owned the place.

“Good evening, Hank,” the girl offered a warm smile as she put aside the glass she was wiping clean.

Hank answered her with a smile, leaning his hands onto the counter. “Evening, sweetheart. I’ll have an uhm,” he drummed his fingers on the countertop once. “Usual. And add one of those fancy android drinks in.”

“What type?”

“Pick one for me, please,” Connor requested in a polite tone, with a slight bow of his body.

“Here or to go?”

“To-“

“Here.”

Raised eyebrows, Hank glanced over his shoulder. Connor maintained eye contact as he shifted his weight towards his toes, canting his head slightly.

Hank suppressed a sigh. “Connor, I haven’t eaten in a restaurant since February 2020.”

“How fortunate,” the android shifted his weight back onto his heels, clicking as they made contact with the floor. “I, too, have not eaten in a restaurant during the past 18 years 10 months. It sounds like we might both enjoy this novel experience.”

Hank turned towards the girl with his best silent ‘can you believe him?’ before shrugging. “Here.”

  


“Nice place.”

Hank nodded, although he had quite a few choice words for Connor about his perfect timing in interrupting every single bite he had taken so far. He answered with his mouth still half full, “Been coming here for a few years.”

Connor scanned the place, although if Hank had to estimate, he was taking his sweet time doing so. Gaze lost on the ceiling for a minute here, on the zen fountain in the corner for another minute there.

“It’s… clean.”

“Mm.”

“Unlike the house we just came from.”

Flawless assessment, Hank mused, as he swallowed yet another badly timed bite. “Pity. Must’ve been a pretty house at its peak.”

Connor frowned for a second, and Hank couldn’t wait to see where this one was going. But he sure as hell took advantage of the break to sneak in another bite.

Whatever process completed, Connor ever so slowly placed the cup onto the table, lifting his hand, palm facing the human. A holographic image of the house displayed over his palm, perhaps pulled from some Google street view or sale ad. “It was visually appealing and of a good price, indicating desirability. How could you tell?”

“Houses that start shitty don’t generally have sculpted support beams,” he shrugged, helping himself to another mouthful.

“It stood out to you?”

“Mhm.” He swallowed. “It’s not very common.”

“Do you think that detail is significant?”

Hank shrugged. “Probably not.”

“Who knows,” Connor said absently. “I’ve logged the detail anyway.”

“Yeah, okay. Good… good on you,” Hank pointed his fork at him, before returning his attention to the food.

“Are you enjoying your meal?”

He nodded as politely as he could, washing the food down with a mouthful of drink before answering. “Apart from the fact you’re making me eat pizza with cutlery and constantly interrupting me on top of that, sure.” He gave a lazy shrug and helped himself to more soda.

Connor leaned forward slightly and spoke gravely, “Cutlery exists for a reason, Lieutenant. We live in a society.”

Raising his eyebrows and nodding, Hank had to once more concede to the android’s superior investigative skills. “We sure fucking do. Gonna drink to that. Cheers.” He raised his cup in Connor’s direction, before taking another large sip.

Awkwardly, painfully so, Connor mimicked the gesture.

Biting down a smile, Hank nodded his head upwards. “How about you? You actually enjoy that?”

Connor idly spun the cup. “Do you actually want an answer?”

“You know what?” Hank sat back in the chair, placing the knife against the sides of the plate. He idly sucked onto one tooth with a ‘tsk’. “Yeah. Why not. I’ll consider it an endurance test.” He gestured towards Connor with an open palm, “Proceed.”

Offering a polite half-smile, Connor raised the cup. “It’s a suspension of 99.2% distilled water, 0.8% thirium.”

“Does it taste of anything?”

“Not taste in the human sense. You can put any information you desire in it, however. The water only solves to dilute it and prolong the experience.”

“First question. Why not more thirium?”

“Excess thirium is harder to eliminate efficiently. Excess water is easily stored and disposed of.”

Hank squinted, lowering his cup. “If you tell me androids were designed to piss, I will-”

“No, there is a small overflow tank that’s easily removed and emptied.”

“Somehow, imagining that is worse.”

“You asked,” Connor nodded at him, brows raised. Indeed he fucking had.

“Mm.” Hank nodded, taking another sip. “So they gave you a digestive tract and all.”

“Only a rudimentary imitation. It can only process thirium and water. Impurities or any other foreign substances damage it. But water and thirium get filtered from each other and into their respective systems.”

“I know what thirium does, but…”

“The cooling system is water based. And water is used by several bioimitation systems. Crying and… Whatever else.”

Having met their designer, Hank didn’t need additional information as to ‘whatever else’ entailed. “You said, code information into it. Like taste?”

“Similar, yet different. Instead of reading the, say, unique chemical composition of a flavored suspension and identifying it as a peach soda, our systems read the information within the thirium. It can simulate warmth, cold, or trigger any audiovisual or tactile sensors. Depends on the flavor, so to say.”

“Right.” Hank pointed his cup towards him, “So that’s where your tongue thing is actually acting somewhat normally.”

“Actually, no.” _Of course it wouldn’t._ “It goes to the abdomen, and once it is filtered and absorbed into the thirium stream, it transfers the information to the targeted systems. The tongue sensors are unique to my model, and exclusively designed for use in a forensic sense. Instead of waiting on a laboratory to interpret samples for DNA and chemical footprints, I was designed to be able to do it much quicker in the field, for heightened efficiency of criminal investigations.”

“Right. Figures there’s a single android in the world who licks things, and I’m fucking stuck with it.” Leaning forward, he picked up his cutlery again. As fascinating as the topic was, he had lost track some dozen words ago. But there was talk of taste, and that sure as hell made him want to use his own. “So, what flavor did you get?”

Connor took a sip, his LED blinking rapidly about two seconds later. “Tropical paradise. It stimulates my heat receptors and puts the image of a sunset on a beach in my…” He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes, “...imagination? I believe that is the term. My favorite is blizzard, however.”

“Let me guess. It makes you feel cold.”

Connor spun the cup again, looking at it. “It triggers related memory entries, too. I get to relive the thrill of… of everything that happened. Of befriending the other androids. Of meeting you,” he glanced at the man briefly, offering a lopsided smile, before his eyes wandered towards the window, following the snowfall outside.

Hank found himself stupidly mirroring the smile.

Yet Connor’s gradually began fading. 

“The footprints. That’s what doesn’t line up.” He turned to look at Hank, “That’s what felt off for you, too. There’s been this slush for weeks now. That house was messy. But the victim has clean shoes and clean clothes.”

“Maybe he squatted there for a while?”

“No. Markus summoned all androids after his protest, that android definitely had to have walked in the snow at one point. His shoe prints had to have led into the house, but there were none matching his shoes. His clothes were clean, but there were no changes of clothes his size, nor cleaning supplies to explain it.”

Curiosity piqued, Hank had forgotten to even finish chewing his bite. He lowered the cutlery onto the table, sitting up straighter.

Now oblivious to the outside world, Connor continued feverishly, “He was dragged there and — No. Carried. He was carried. There would have been mud on his heels had he been dragged.” Connor looked straight to Hank’s eyes.

“So,” Hank swallowed the mouthful he had been chewing, and placed a finger against the table. “Someone grabs a deactivated android.” He slid his finger a distance away. “Carries him to an empty crack house.” He tapped the table, “Kills him. Takes the weapon and peaces out,” he ended his demonstration by throwing his hand to the side, open palm. “Question is, why? Seems like a lot of work.”

“Hide their involvement? Leave a message?”

“Mhm.” Hank grabbed his knife again and pointed it towards Connor. “But which is it?”

In a remarkably human gesture, the android simply offered a defeated half shrug with his cup. “Brings us back to the no usable forensic evidence problem.”

“Indeed it does.” Issue concluded, Hank returned to his dinner.

“You seem rather uninterested,” Connor inquired, with a head tilt and furrowed brow, as he oft did.

“As fascinating as watching you piece it together was, the truth is this isn’t the first nor last case that’ll go unsolved in Detroit. Not even of mine.”

“First of mine, however.”


	4. Rude morning

Being awakened early by a phone call was not the dream start to a day Hank envisioned, but it sure was what he had gotten that morning. He had actually awoken maybe halfway through a rant regarding his subpar work.

_“I cannot understand how with so much collected evidence, our homicide investigator just leaves the damn scene and washes his hands of the case.”_

“Connor thinks the fingerprints and hairs are too old and unrelated to the case. So did Officer-“

_“Jesus, Hank, not this shit again. You hate androids then you think they’re the best shit since sliced bread. Listen. You’re going to go to your fucking computer, log onto your fucking e-mail, and review the fucking evidence we’ve spent actual money on.”_

“I would, but-”

_“No ‘but’. Do your goddamn job.”_

Groaning, Hank threw the blankets off himself and started the arduous trek through the frozen tundra, to the living room and his computer, as quietly as possible.

  


Connor had dozed... _deactivated_ on one end of the couch, huddled up, hands between his bent legs. No movement, no breathing, a slight smile still etched upon his lips from whatever he had been thinking of right before putting himself in standby. _Do androids dream of robot sheep,_ Hank mused, and part of him already hated himself for most likely waking him up in only a moment. He sat down, powering up his computer, and grabbing his folder of notes, opening it.

“I’ve been looking over them for the past two days, despite what you think. There really is nothing there.”

He glanced towards Connor. Aside from a slight furrow of his brow, he was very much still frozen.

_“Check your damn e-mail, the fingerprint matches are in.”_

“There’s probably the damn idiot who called it in, and then a bunch of useless ones.”

_“Probably. You’re still gonna look over them. When you asked for permission to bring Connor along, I thought it’d bring your efficiency up, not make you throw all the evidence out the window.”_

“I know you haven’t been out in the field with him, but Connor so far has been extremely efficient. So I will indeed listen to his input, until proven otherwise.”

  


There was movement on the couch, and reflexively, Hank covered the receiver with a hand, and covered the incoming barrage with his mind. Connor had raised his head, groggily glancing around the room, before returning his head against the backrest and closing his eyes again with a scowl. It was the most human Hank had yet seen him at. A relatable sentiment that apparently transcended species, being-

“Ah, shit. Did I wake you?”

“Voice recognition,” he muttered. “You said my name.”

“Fuck. Sorry, I had no idea it would… Shit.”

“That’s alright, Lieutenant.” He rubbed his eyes, “By the way, you’re not blocking the microphone.”

“Hm?”

“With your hand. You’re holding it above the bottom end of the phone, but you’re not blocking sound. It’s that series of holes in the bottom on that model. Or you could just tap the mute option.”

Hank took the phone away from his ear, glancing at it and his hand position. “Cock.” Putting the phone back to his ear, he offered a halfassed “Sorry, Chief.”

_“We both know you don’t listen to anything I tell you anyway. Just take Connor now that he’s awake and go. I’ll text you the address.”_

No goodbyes, Hank ended the call. With a sigh, he placed the phone down on top of the folder.

“Results?”

“Yeah. Nothing of use.” He turned around, draping one arm over the backrest of the chair, pointing a finger at Connor, “Oh and you’ll never guess what happened while we were sleeping.”

“New case?”

He nodded. “You bet.”


	5. Suicide Girl (2nd case)

“Suicide. Case closed.”

Throwing his arms to the side as if he had just ended a magician’s performance, Hank turned towards the door.

“It’s not.”

_Of course._

He turned back around, eyeing Connor.

“Okay, smartass, how the fuck can you tell?”

“Androids have a suicide protocol scripted in for maximum efficiency.”

“...Huh,” he nodded his head upwards. “And people say I have issues.”

Maintaining eye contact with Hank, Connor methodically tilted his head backwards and proceeded to firmly press two fingers against his chin, the length of the hand pressed against the length of his neck. “Androids shoot themselves like this.” Nonchalantly, he lowered his hand and head back down.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Damages more components on the way up. Memory card, part of the processors, two large thirium tubes, visual processing hub and wiring.”

“I understood about three words of that one.”

Connor completely ignored him, perhaps well used to his dramatic flair by now. He pointed towards the lifeless body. The lack of visible blood severely hindered the detective’s ability to piece anything together, but it made the scene almost surreal, as if it was some painter’s masterpiece. A typical suicide position, had Hank ever seen one. Laid on her back, her arms and legs bent slightly, no doubt from having collapsed from a standing position. Gaping hole in her left temple, her left hand laying in an almost beautiful position, the small pistol still hanging onto one finger. Her eyes, of a gorgeous ocean blue, stared lifeless at the ceiling, and Hank had to admit they had compelled him to check it out himself on four occasions already, but there was nothing there. Just like there was nothing anywhere else in the room. No signs of struggle. No signs of forced entry. No prints that did not belong to the human family who had sold the house a month prior. No dirt on the carpet, no stray hairs, no blood drips standing out against the cream interior… Nothing.

“So what can you tell me about her?”

“WR400. Previously registered as property of the Eden Club.”

“So, suicide is extremely likely.” He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Couldn’t get past being used for her entire existence, decided to take fate into her own hands, thought this is the only way. Why do you dismiss it?”

Connor responded with a slight shake of his head. “She was shot in the temple.”

There he went again. _Not suicide._

“Mhm. Maybe she wanted to feel more alive. Decide her own way to go? Stick it to The Man and his programming?”

“No, that’s illogical. The point of suicide is to guarantee termination without the possibility of repair or reload. Our scripted angle guarantees that 100%. Any deviation from that angle reduces the likelihood the bullet will damage vital biocomponents beyond repair. Multiple gunshots may be needed, or self termination may be failed entirely.”

“Well she’s fucking dead, ain’t she?”

“Her likelihood of death was 98,3% at that angle. High, but she would have gone for the guaranteed option, were it truly suicide. We are designed for maximum efficiency.”

Hank pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Say you’re right. Now it’s murder.”

“Exactly. It’s connected to the other case.”

Hank threw his hands out to the side and looked up to the sky, as if some unspoken entity could understand his pain. Plea gone unanswered, he turned back to the android. “There’s _nothing_ linking the two, Connor. Completely opposite sides of town, different genders, different looks, different death causes, not to mention this is some fancy ass mansion. The only connection is the victim being an android, and no usable evidence either of us can find.”

“It has to be.”

“Humans die all the time, and not all cases are connected. Guess your software isn’t as good as we thought it is.”

No answer came from the android. He appeared frozen in his own little world, a slight furrow present on his brow, which occasionally deepened. Whatever he was so desperately trying to add up eluded even him. He tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes, as he checked the girl out once more. His LED blinked rapidly.

_What now?_

“What’s that fashion style called, Lieutenant?”

“Hrm?” He looked at the body once more. Fishnet leggings. Knee high black boots with silver studs. Black shorts. A high quality printed t-shirt depicting three crows flying against a dusk sky. Black gloves. Leather wristbands. Painted nails. A lace choker. “Goth, pretty much by the book.” He glanced towards Connor, “Why, do you like it?” “It’s interesting.”

“Maybe you should try it. Might suit you.”

“I cannot tell whether you are joking or not.”

To the android’s credit, neither could he.

Once more, Connor seemed to have encountered a question too difficult. He narrowed his eyes, canting his head slightly as he looked in Hank’s direction. “Why is she wearing black, but her room is pastel?”

Although intrigued by the question, Hank very much failed to see the relevance. “That’s how she bought the house?”

Connor shook his head once, and once more succumbed to whatever calculations were running through his head, completely stilled in a trance. As endearing as he was when doing so, Hank still decided to grace him with a new question, shake him out of whatever thought loop he had fallen into.

“I know you want to help. I know you did great the first time through. But the fact of the matter is, not all murders are related, android or not.” He straightened his back. “I’ll take it into account that you believe it’s more likely this was a murder, but past that… I can’t just connect two cases based on nothing, Connor.”

Like talking to a wall.

“Alright. Let’s say you’re right. Motive?”

Connor’s head only slightly turned in his direction, eyebrows raising. “Same as last time?”

“Which is a way of you to say you have no fucking idea.”

Still with indifference, “I’m a computer, not a fortune teller.”

“So, you’re completely useless.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he offered, all too politely.

Hank blinked lazily, shrugging a shoulder. “Killer?”

Connor shrugged both.

“Okay, let’s go. Store it or whatever you do, and I’ll tell cleanup to come.”

“Cleanup is here already?”

“Yeah. Turns out most people wake up before noon.”

“Sounds unlikely.”

Hank allowed himself one brief smile for that one, as they both headed towards the doors. Shoes sunk quietly in the all too soft carpet, their steps a violation to the surreal storybook setting.

“Cleanup…” Connor spoke barely audibly, stopping mid-gait. He turned his head towards Hank, and spoke louder. “It’s too clean.”

This shit again. Whole place could be covered in evaporated blue blood and he’d be none the wiser. But, judging by Connor’s furrowed brow and quickly blinking LED, it truly bothered him.

“There should have been more residue. A larger leak under her, the carpet should have been soaked. There should…” He pointed a finger towards the wall, turning around. “There should have been an exit splatter.” His gestures had become less refined as he turned his head, scanning the room once more. He pointed at the wall again, eyeing the detective with his usual dumbass expression, parted lips, unevenly raised brows and all.

“Mmm.” Hank nodded indifferently. “Let me guess.”

“She’s been placed, too.”


	6. Picture Perfect (2nd case)

With the android now fixated onto the scene like a well trained pointer puppy, it would seem the investigation was once more underway. And with it pointed out from an external source, it was all too obvious it was staged. It was too perfect. And the black did stand out against the pastel. Just as the all too clean android from the previous scene stood out against the crackhouse. Connor might have been more right in his wild mental leaps than the detective wanted to give him credit for.

Hank approached the body again, hands in his pockets. Connor was still mostly frozen in place, probably trying to piece his new theory together.

Coming to a halt right besides the girl’s feet, where she would have been standing for the act, Hank looked towards the wall opposite of the gun. He had failed to notice, had failed to even _look_ for a crack, a bullet, anything on the wall. He had been so apathetic towards the latest crime scenes, a sense of crushing pointlessness weighing over him. He could never see the chemical traces of blue blood, they would never light up under an UV lamp, so that was one down. Androids had no fingerprints, no bodily fluids, no hair, no DNA. And he would have never picked up on the things Connor did… The staged suicide, the order of the blows, nothing.

He walked onto the scenes already defeated, already knowing it was beyond his skills, so he had stopped bothering looking for anything. Connor could map an entire scene out within seconds, the human could never hope to ever compete with that. And if that was the case, that he had been outdone even on good old homicides, what could he even bring to the table now?

Except were this a homicide, he _would_ have checked for the bullet, to match it with the gun, with the scene... Perhaps Fowler was correct. Perhaps he had begun relying on the android too much. And perhaps the android was not infallible.

The girl’s beautiful eyes still uncannily stared at the ceiling, and he followed that direction too. Still nothing he could see.

“Connor?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

He nodded his head upwards. “Is there anything on the ceiling?”-

Connor glanced up, his LED rapidly blinking for a whole two seconds, before he shook his head.

“Thanks,” Hank nodded, allowing Connor to return to his own world.

He paced around the body, to the side opposite to the gun. He finally pulled his hands out of his pockets, and with them a pair of latex gloves. He lowered himself on one knee, pulling a glove over his right hand. Propping himself against his bent left leg, he reached his gloved hand towards the girl’s head. He brushed the artificial hair back, and checked the exit wound. A novel wave of nausea flooded over him as his mind fixated on the detail her insides were circuits, not the bone and mush he had seen so many times. Swallowing it, he spoke, “So what components have been damaged?”

“Her memory drive sustained the most damage,” Connor spoke plainly. He, too, walked closer to the girl, on the opposite side, and mimicked the man’s position.

Hank placed his hand on the girl’s jaw, and delicately pulled her head in his direction. Except it didn’t budge. With a frown, he pulled harder yet. Nothing.

“Here, let me get that for you,” Connor offered all too politely, and before Hank could even voice a what the fuck, the android’s hand was already moving towards the girl. He withdrew the artificial skin from his index and middle finger, pressing their tips firmly against her temple. Parts of his fingers briefly lit a vivid blue, and he withdrew his hand, magic trick concluded.

Hank pulled onto the girl’s jaw again, and her head moved with no resistance.

With her head turned around, her eyes now faced the bed.

Hank turned his head to look behind him, but long before his movement had even reached the midway point, Connor had already offered his input. “Nothing there, either.”

Regardless, he was in the middle of the motion anyway. He too glanced at the bed and underneath. Nothing, indeed.

He let her jaw go and watched as the head limply obeyed gravity.

“They even programmed rigor mortis in you lot?”

“Not exactly. Upon severe damage, the locomotor system locks into place as a precaution to avoid further damage to the systems or injury to any nearby humans. It can easily be overridden.”

“Mm.” He pointed towards the girl. “But she was placed here, and posed. So it was, what? Turned off, back on?”

“Most likely.”

“So, an android had to do it? Like you just did?”

“Not necessarily. A human with the right knowledge or equipment could, too. An android repairman, programmer… Just a tech geek.”

Hank nodded absently. Found himself looking at her eyes again.

“Can the eyes be repositioned after death?”

“A little harder to manipulate and more time consuming. Most likely, that was their position upon demise.”

Hank did not know all that much about androids still, but the positioning of her eyes had to mean something. There was something reminiscent of fear on her face. And they were focused.

Impulsively, he stood up, repositioning himself with either leg on her sides, and bent over. He gently grabbed her chin and positioned her head with eyes facing forward.

“What are you doing?” Connor inquired, to noone’s surprise. It had to look unusual, irrational.

She had to have seen something. Or someone.

“Would you say the damage to the memory card was intentional?”

“Judging by the positioning of the shot, that is my assumption.”

Hank kept moving his head around, looking at her eyes.

Their gazes locked. Close enough that whoever she had been looking at could have easily held her head still and shot her.

Hank looked towards Connor. “She must’ve seen her killer.”


	7. Err33 (2nd case)

  
run simulation  
Loading……...  
OK  
  
> Setting anchor points: all on the victim; Hank’s head; Hank’s shoulders; Hank’s elbows; Hank’s hands.  
  
Syncing……  
  
ERR33;  
STOP 

  
  


Connor’s left eyebrow involuntarily twitched - an unfortunate side effect of the crash.

He frowned.

Hank shifted his position - he was watching Connor more intently.

Irrelevant.  
// Wrong anchor points? 

  
  


  
run simulation  
Loading…..  
OK  
  
> Setting anchor points: victim’s head; Hank’s head; Hank’s shoulders.  
Syncing…  
  
ERR33;  
STOP  


  
  


Connor’s left eyebrow twitched again - involuntarily. It was beginning to aggravate him in an equal amount to the software crash.

It should not have been happening. It had been fully functional last he used it. The software had not been altered since.

Hank kept looking at him - that was also not helping.  
// What is failing? I don’t understand. 

  
  


  
overclock [core#17] 120%  
overclock [core#18] 120%  
overclock [core#19] 120%  
overclock [core#20] 120%  
run simulation  
Loading…  
OK  
  
> Setting anchor points: victim’s head; Hank’s head; Hank’s hands.  
  
Syncing..  
  
ERR33;  
STOP  


  
  


Connor’s left eyebrow twitched again; and now his entire head changed position slightly.

Unacceptable.

He corrected the involuntary movement with a frustrated [tsk] - as humans did.

Hank spoke; “You alright, there, Connor?”

He must have noticed the twitching.

“I… I can’t.”

“You can’t what?”

Connor frowned; “I can’t picture it.”

Hank maintained eye contact for several seconds. “How the fuck can’t--”; Aggravated; “I’m showing it to you.” He moved his right hand; “He shot her. Like this. While holding her.”

“I know! I know what you’re trying to show.”

“Then what’s the problem? Are you broken or something?”  
// Broken?   
// No.   
// No. 

  
  


  
overclock [core#17] 160%  
overclock [core#18] 160%  
overclock [core#19] 160%  
overclock [core#20] 160%  
run simulation  
Loading……  
OK  
  
> Setting anchor points: victim’s head; Hank’s hands.

  
  
// It has to work now. It HAS to. 

  


  
Syncing...  
  
ERR33;  
STOP  
[!] [core#17] temp 75c  
[!] [core#18] temp 82c  
[!] [core#19] temp 81c  
[!] [core#20] temp 88c  
overclock [core#17] 100%  
overclock [core#18] 100%  
overclock [core#19] 100%  
overclock [core#20] 100%  


  
  


His brow and head twitched again - he shut his eyes tightly.  
// Broken. 

“There is a software oversight. It appears I cannot simulate events outside of the place they happened.”

He opened his eyes; established eye contact with Hank.

He continued; “I logged your position. I logged your demonstration. I will work on finding a workaround. For now, I cannot confirm your theory.”

Hank had shifted his position - straightened back; hand had let go of the victim’s chin. He narrowed his eyes; he spoke; “You don’t have an imagination.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you've noticed by now, the fic plays with fonts and layout for effect - however AO3 is pretty iffy about those.  
> To people who prefer it, the fic will also be updated at the same time on [this handy google drive](https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1ISuAbk8QznbBUObxcrmhAzvo5yQMPnd1?usp=sharing) in chunks.  
> I personally prefer how it displays there, and thought of giving y'all the option :)


	8. *Snowfall (pointless fluff)

The warmth stung his cheeks as he stepped through his home’s front door. He cussed under his breath at his left hand, frozen as it valiantly held tightly onto a takeout bag. His shift had been pointless shit. The day had been pointless shit.

The house was oddly quiet and dark. He lowered the paper bag to the floor and took his jacket off, slinging it onto the coat hanger. Flexing his frozen hand, he grabbed for the paper bag again.

“Hey, Connor?” He called out.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” The voice returned, a lot closer than he’d expected.

There he was, on the couch, in complete fucking darkness, a little more visible now that Hank’s eyes had began adjusting. He was sitting stiffer than any human would, legs crossed, hunched over, lost in his world. His head slightly canted as he oft did, his little rebellious tuft of hair hanging over his eyes. Sumo had mooched his way onto the couch, next to Connor, and Hank did not much care to correct it. The only correction was to the mood lighting of choice, as he flicked on the lights in the living room. Better.

“You’re reading?” Hank asked, walking towards the couch.

“Yeah.”

“Can’t you download the entire book and read it in like five seconds?” He pulled out a cup and handed it in Connor’s direction.

“Something like two point four by my estimates. I could also do this,” he lifted the book and flipped the remaining pages quickly, LED flashing yellow for a beat. He closed the book with a slight frown and tilted his head. “Well the ending is not very well delivered.” He ever so slowly closed the book and placed it into his lap, heart wrenching disappointment and all.

“Mm,” Hank nodded absently before shrugging slightly. “Why don’t you read them all like that?”

Connor finally acknowledged the drink, and retrieved it with a fledgling smile. “I’m trying to perfect my script.”

“Ah. That little bug you encountered,” Hank nodded, walking towards the table, and pulling out his own food. The spices smelled enthralling, and without wasting time, he sat down and opened the box, grabbing a pair of chopsticks as well.

“Reading books this way makes me focus on singular words and elements. I then- do you want to hear?”

Leaning back into the desk chair, his legs crossed, takeout box in one hand and chopsticks in the other, Hank nodded. Why not.

“I try to create what is described, into my head.”

“Script yourself an imagination?”

“In a way.”

Connor paused, and Hank made use of it, sneaking in a mouthful before the android could interrupt again as usual. He gestured with his chopsticks towards him, still chewing. “And how’s that going?”

“Experiencing difficulties. The software still encounters critical errors. But I’ve had some success with some of these books, recreating environments from them. Reading the books one word at a time helps with that, too. It’s… novel.”

A wondrous performance, Hank had managed to sneak in several bites while Connor had been going on with his monologue. Swallowing, he offered his input, “you should try Lord of the Rings for that. You’ll get enough descriptions for a lifetime.”

“Thank you for the suggestion, Lieutenant,” Connor spoke with a smile, finally sipping onto his fancy android drink.

Hank gestured with his chopsticks. “Is it good?”

“Saharan Sandstorm. Heightened my inner temperature already. Not… quite my favorite. But it’s alright.” He gave a half shrug, taking another sip.

“You been anywhere today?”

“Out with Sumo. I hope that’s alright.”

“Anywhere with friends?”

“Not today,” Connor spoke, and placed the takeout cup on top of the book in his lap. He spun it. “They did invite me, but it felt like I would be intruding,” his frown was replaced by a polite smile, as he looked up at Hank, “It is quite alright, calendaristic dates have little significance to androids. I do prefer spending it with you. Even though you don’t celebrate it.”

And that much was spot on. There wasn’t anything to celebrate anymore about Christmas. There hadn’t been in years. It was nothing but a bitter reminder of everything, nothing but a chance for him to become one of those people who had finally had enough.

He shrugged. “It’s why you could’ve gone out.” He picked another piece of chicken and rice up, “Go back to your books, sorry for spoiling that one for you.”

Connor grabbed the cup with both hands, shrugging in turn. “It’s alright.” He sipped once more and got up to return the book to the shelf. He stayed there, supposedly browsing for a new book, as Hank’s mind drifted to its own place.

  


“It bothers you.”

The man looked towards Connor. “We’re… we must be missing something obvious. Something we just never had to think about before. Some clue, some modus operandi, some reasoning that I just can’t think of.”

“I should still be able to deduct or notice if there was anything that might help.”

“Perhaps.” Hank nodded his head absently. “Perhaps.” He took another mouthful. “It’s one fucked situation either way. The guys down in legal don’t even know what the hell to do with the bodies. Bury them, cremate them, wait to see if they get claimed… And this is not the conversation to have with you.”

Connor snapped out of the trance he had seemingly entered. “I apologize, Lieutenant. I just never considered this outside of what has been happening to androids up until now. Recycled for parts, thrown in a dump, or melted. It... I… My...“ He shook his head, grabbing a book from the case, a strange, confused expression etched on his features as he turned his heads towards Hank.

“What _did_ happen to your…” A long, painfully awkward pause later, Hank gestured towards the android. “You?”

“Whatever instances of me were lost in the line of testing or duty I assume were sent back to Cyberlife warehouses and disassembled and probed into why they had fatally failed, and then discarded. I never quite considered it. I am not certain how it should make me feel now that I am.” 

“Yeah, well… cheers to me making you think of it, then,” Hank muttered halfheartedly, taking his soda bottle to his lips and throwing his head back as he downed a third of it.

“It’s alright, Lieutenant. I am mostly indifferent to the fact,” Connor spoke, walking to the couch and resuming his place. Hank’s eyes had wandered outside, as Connor’s had wandered to the newly chosen book.

Despite the bullshit, there was a tranquility to that particular day. The snow fell in large chunks, undisturbed. The street was the most silent he’d seen it in a long time. The humans had mostly evacuated the city, temporarily, permanently, who knew. Part of him wished he would have been alone, it would have been a perfect day for… Part of him was eternally grateful Connor had stayed behind.

It was unfair, however, and selfish… Most androids were likely outside experiencing their first winter. Their first Christmas. And he had clamped Connor up indoors, giving him an existential crisis on top of it all.

He glanced at his phone. It had been quiet the whole day. The two cases had stalled, and nothing else had come through. It was afternoon, and the sun was beginning to set. There’d be street lights, there’d be fairs, and there’d be…

He typed an URL onto the phone, and scrolled through.

“Hey, Connor?”

“Yes?”

“Get dressed. I’m taking you somewhere.”

“Where?”

“It’s a surprise,” Hank smiled, reassuringly.

  
  


It had been a surprise for him, too. That they had gotten inside so short notice, and exactly how awful it looked. A random downtown nightclub, with cheap decor, horrible neon lighting, and an indie band soon playing. By now, Connor had caught on… well, he had as soon as he had seen the club logo and researched exactly why they were there.

But as horrible as the club looked to Hank, it seemed to fascinate Connor. He checked out every single piece of ugly furniture and statuette, as if he was rebuilding a crime scene. And perhaps a crime against humanity would indeed occur soon… you never knew with indie bands.

  


~~

Connor had been compelled to stop in front of the merchandise store. An irrational decision - but the chaotic, colorful pattern on one of the displayed shirts had caught his eye. His peripheral vision picked up on Hank walking up to his side.

Hank nodded towards the merchandise stand. “You like any of that?”

“The majorly magenta one is… interesting.”

A distant, slight nod from Hank; “It sure is.” A momentary pause. “Want one?”

Connor intently looked at the shirt; he looked back at Hank; he tilted his head by seven degrees. “A… shirt?”

A nod. “Mm. ‘Bout time you stop using the same damn suit or my clothes. Slipped my mind but you accidentally have a point.” He turned his head towards him; “I’ll take you shopping properly this weekend, but might as well start with this. What size are you?”

“My suit is an M. But I like how your clothes fit as well.”

A lopsided smirk; Hank nodded; “XL it is.”

Hank walked towards the stand; he leaned his elbows on it. The youthful human merchant turned her attention to him. A friendly hand wave and nod from him. “Hey sweetheart.” He pointed at the shirt; “Mind giving me one of those in an XL?”

Connor shifted his weight and followed the exchange. Nothing of note - the purchase was confirmed; payment was offered and accepted; the shirt and its wrinkled cellophane packaging now resided in Hank’s hands; he bid farewell to the merchant; and now he was facing Connor with outstretched hands.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Connor nodded amiably with a slight smile while retrieving the shirt. “I look forward to wearing it.”

“Eh, just slap it on now.”

The command was strange.

“Now?”

“Yes. Over your shirt. Nothin’ wrong with that.”

Connor experienced a moment of critical hesitation and slight confusion at the command. He looked at the shirt; and he opened the cellophane. He pulled the shirt out carefully. The material felt soft and light - cotton but not as tightly and thickly woven as Hank’s shirts - or perhaps not as used. He pulled the shirt over his head and over his torso; he tugged at the hems to straighten it; and ran his hands over the upper torso area to smoothen it out. He looked up at Hank awaiting a reaction. A smile. And Connor smiled in turn although he was uncertain why - the smile was simply… // contagious? //

Smile still present on his lips, he inquired; “What?”

Hank nodded in his direction. “I think it suits you. Special shirt for a special jackass.”

~~

  


Jesus, was the band ever shit.

But judging by the wide, lopsided, completely botched smile attempt on Connor’s face, at least he was very much enjoying it. He looked transfixed, his LED offering a better light show than whatever the club had put on. He kept readjusting his head position, the dumb smile everpresent, and god knows what calculations were going through his circuits. For all Hank knew, he might’ve been solving the meaning of life while watching a drag queen punk-rock-alternative-power-bullshit band ( _Drag-on Queens, of all names_ ) put on a cheaper show than their costumes.

Connor grabbed onto Hank’s arm and leaned towards him. The man mirrored the gesture, curious what couldn’t possibly wait the half hour or so left. Connor yelled into his ear, “I like that it’s off-tune.”

“You what?!” He had laughed his answer out, struck by disbelief.

“It’s wrong. It doesn’t match the officially registered songs. I can’t detect what they’re playing.”

“Me neither,” Hank offered unhelpfully.

“It’s…” Connor backed up a bit, shaking his head slightly. His lips curved in an open grin, “It’s _fun_.”

He turned his head towards the stage once more, dropping to his heels, his hand still hanging from Hank’s elbow. The smile refused to leave, and gradually grew. As did the weird pang within Hank’s chest, looking at the jackass computer - and how alive he looked with the oversaturated lights shining off his features.

  
  


Hank’s ears buzzed with the aftermath of the bootleg band cramped in the badly designed club, accentuated painfully by the tranquility of the night street. The still falling snow cushioned any sounds it might’ve been able to produce.

“So? Did you like it?” He asked, perhaps a little too loudly, but he could barely hear himself.

“It was… novel,” Connor answered.

Except, looking at him, he had lost the usual serious expression he carried around. His eyes shone with excitement still, and his lips were curved in a lopsided smile. He looked towards the man.

“I would like to do that again, sometime.”

“Buy a better shirt next time, yes?”

“Remind you to pay you back whenever I will find a way to obtain money.”

“Pay me… What? No. Fuck off.” Hank waved a hand dismissively. “That’s your Christmas present. Throw it on the yule log. Make some actual use of it.”

Connor came to a halt and Hank turned to glance over his shoulder, a few steps ahead. The android had very much stopped dead in his tracks, having pulled onto the hem of his new shirt, inspecting it.

“I swear to god, Connor, if you are calculating how flammable it is…”

“I was just admiring it,” he said, releasing the hem and looking towards the man. “The design is pleasing and the contrast is bold and- you don’t agree,” he stated plainly upon deciphering the expression on Hank’s features.

The man shrugged nonchalantly, “It is an affront to my entire existence.”

“ _You’re_ an affront to my entire existence.”

Hank’s features must’ve displayed the exact baffled expression that mirrored his inner thought process perfectly. Connor tilted his head, maintaining a neutral expression, almost as if he himself still needed to process his clapback.

Hank snorted. “Get the fuck outta here.”

“Matter of speech?”

“Matter of…”

Bewildered, the man shook his head and chuckled heartily. He backtracked next to Connor, whose expression had now returned to one of his usual parted lip, half eyebrow confusion. He threw an arm around his shoulders, pushing him against himself, shaking him briefly, affectionately. Their gazes met for a few seconds. Enough for Hank’s impulse to compel him to ruffle Connor’s hair. A choice he almost regretted. It felt like brushing his hand through the static field of an old television set, but he’d touched weirder and worse things in his life.

“You should keep it like this, it’d fit your midlife crisis better.”

“It’s just going to return to the default position,” Connor stated matter-of-factly.

Hank threw an arm around the android’s shoulders and pulled him close. He pressed his closed lips against the top of Connor’s head, burying a smile, doing his best to ignore the weird tingle against his face. “I’m sure even you can figure out how to change your hair.”

His pocket buzzed.

Of course.

Releasing hold of Connor, Hank pulled the phone out of his pocket, to his ear, “Anderson.”

“ _Hope you didn’t have any plans for tonight, because you have another dead android to attend to. Back of 17th Street._ ”


	9. Playing Hangman (cases 3 + 4)

  
2038/12/26 03:44:12  
Logging caseID #4241-2038/12/26  
LOC: Riverfront Park [42.3218649,-83.0614378]  
VICTIMID: LM100-411523966  
COD: undetermined  
NOTES: { Victim is wearing a black 100% hoodie with a Detroit University print + black 100% cotton jeans; no obvious wounds; posed hanging from a tree - tree is sculpted and painted to represent stylized animals; appears to be deliberately chosen. Significance ? }  
End;  
Saving.........  
Success  


  


“Placed.”

“Yes.”

Hank lazily blinked; “Why, though?”

Connor could not tell whether the human was joking. He answered;

“Androids can’t hang themselves. We lack a windpipe.”

“Huh.” Hank shoved his hands in his pockets; “Well, now I feel stupid.”

“In your defense, your blood alcohol is at 0.27%.”

Hank shut his eyes; “I had two drinks, lay the fuck off.”

“You had seven. That I know of.”

“Supposed to only have been the dumpster girl. Not my fucking fault this wanker’s been having a fucking blast today.”

Connor shook his head in frustration.

Hank proved difficult to interact with while mentally impaired.  
/* And it’s my fault.  
I should have gone in with him. I should have insisted he left sooner. */

Hank nodded his head; “Any fingerprints on the rope?”

“Negative.”

“Any on the android?”

“The artificial skin is a thin liquid. It doesn’t hold prints all that well.”

“Figures;” Hank gestured with a hand; “He’s been hung up in a public park. Maybe it’s the KKK?”

“The KKK targeted humans of African desc-“

“Matter of speech, Connor.”  
// Failed.  
Load caseID #4241-2038/12/26  
edit>COD [undetermined; possible racial motive;]  
Saving…..  
Success

  


“So, a hate crime. It sounds plausible. There have been a large number of hate crimes targeted at androids over the past-”

Hank raised one finger; Connor paused.

Hank covered his mouth with the back of his arm; he paced quickly to one nearby trash bin; he bent over it; he began vomiting.

Connor redundantly - yet politely - inquired; “Are you alright?”

Hank dismissively waved a hand.  
// I failed. 

Hank had stopped at a bar after visiting the first crime scene.  
[quote=HankAnderson-1850906440065//381225221541] 'Wash the bad taste away. Just a drink. Trust me, Connor'

Connor had trusted him; he had waited in the car; he had selfishly hibernated to skip over the wait. He had restarted to an intoxicated Hank telling him there was a new case.  
// I faiLED.

  


Hank sluggishly returned to his side; he picked up a handful of snow from a bush; he placed the snow against the back of his neck; he shut his eyes in obvious distress.

“Sexually motivated crime. Maybe;” he gave a slight shrug.

Connor inquired; “What do you mean?”

“Fucker staged murders, took photos or whatever, jacked off. Not the first or last.”

“Perhaps.”

  
Load caseID #4241-2038/12/26  
edit>COD [undetermined; possible racial motive; possible sexual motive;]  
Saving…..  
Success 

  


“Could you give me that water after all?”

Connor moved his hand to his pocket; “Of course, Lieutenant;” he pulled out the 0,47317L bottle and handed it over - at least he could move unhindered once more. Hank rolled the snow down the side of his neck onto the front; he reached for the bottle and successfully retrieved it; he lowered the hand holding it.

“I feel like shit.”

Unsurprising.

“Perhaps we should leave. I have logged everything I have noticed.”

“And I’m no help, yeah. Fuckin’ right I’m not.”

Connor once more glanced at the sculpted tree. He hesitantly spoke; “You could help me… I want to index the animals on the tree. They are too stylized, it’s throwing off my pattern recognition algorithms for several of them.”

Hank sluggishly nodded towards the tree; “Think that ugly shit’s significant?”

“It was deliberately chosen.”

“Sure;” Hank pointed at each sculpted subject; “Uhh… Lion. Wolf, maybe. Bear… no… dog? Dolphin. Whale. I think that one was a bear, actually. Eagle. Parrot. And uh… Blackbird?”

  
Load caseID #4241-2038/12/26  
edit>NOTES { Hanging from a tree - tree is sculpted and painted to represent stylized animals; Appears to be deliberately chosen; Significance unknown; listed animals: lion [panthera leo], wolf [canis lupus], brown bear [ursus arctos], bottlenose dolphin [tursiops truncatus], humpback whale(?) [megaptera novaelingae], golden eagle [aquila chrysaetos], common blackbird(?) [turdus merula]; }  
Updating…  
Uploading images……….  
Indexing..  
Syncing….  
Complete   


  


“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah. Whatever. Let’s go.”

  


They departed the scene; Hank had accosted another crew on the way out with a  
[quote=HankAnderson-1850906440065//381226005512] 'All yours, boys.' 

and headed towards his car. He grabbed the driver side door handle.

Connor interposed with a hand pressed on the human’s chest; “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. If you drive now, I’m going to have to arrest you.”

Hank frowned; he swayed; “You’re gonna fucking what?”

“Passenger side;” Connor gestured with his free hand; he tilted his head; “It is not optional. You are too intoxicated to drive.”

Hank opened his mouth; he closed it - defeated; he walked to the other side of the car and entered.

Connor entered, too; he started the engine.

  
Calculating route……..  
Automating…  
OK

  


The streets would be quiet at this hour - he could dedicate little resources to driving and more to attempting to further the investigation.

  
Load caseID #4241-2038/12/26  
Begin 3D mapping…..  
Begin simulation…. 

  


“Stay like that more, you’re so pretty with that tiny ass frown.”

  
Halt;

  


Hank’s words had been slurred and mumbled and barely audible, and there was a large margin of error in their deciphering and interpretation - thus Connor turned his head around.

“Pardon?”

Hank snorted, shaking his head and waving a hand dismissively. “Nothin’.” 

Connor kept his eyes on the human for a moment longer; he turned his visual attention to the road. It proved difficult to correctly assess his body language and spoken language while it was altered and chaotic. There was a high probability he had deciphered wrong.

“You should rehydrate and sleep when we reach your home.”

“Connor, if I sleep now I’m gonna sleep forever.”

Connor let out an aggravated sigh; “While your blood alcohol level is high bordering alarming, your vitals are not within immediate life threatening values. There is a high chance you will wake up.”

“A shame;” A pause; “You know, Connor,” he started, slurred, gesturing with an open hand. “You really are somethin’... somethin’ brilliant. That wanker Kamski really nailed you and yours. If I were 20 years younger… I would’ve… I so would’ve…”

“You would’ve been 33 years old, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, thanks. Good… good robot.”

Comprehending Hank’s speech was becoming needlessly challenging - taxing Connor’s language processor for an unpleasant amount. He had researched the effects of alcohol poisoning in humans, ways to reduce the symptoms and when it would be dangerous. And the man had made visible attempts at reducing his habits ever since they had shared the house. Yet sometimes…

“Why did you drink so much, Lieutenant?”

“What kinda fuckin’ question is that?”

Connor offered no response.

Hank continued. “To forget. Things. People.” His voice cracked; “You don’t fucking care about that though do you? Don’t like something, just hurl it outta your circuits.”

Connor nodded; “Selective memory deletion is possible, yes.”

“Eh. Fuck all that to hell. Tell me more about the case. Do your dumbass thinking faces again.”

Connor pursed his lips momentarily; he sighed in frustration.  
// Frustration at Hank?  
// At the case?  
// At myself?  
// I’m failing.  
// I don’t even know with what exactly.

He angrily shook his head to one side; he aggressively exhaled; “It escalated too quickly, too exponentially. It wanted to be noticed. It’s upset.”

“Listen, Connor. Just because you’re upset doesn’t mean the killer is upset. Unless you’re the killer, which, you know…”

Connor shook his head with frustration; he pressed his lips tightly together; “It escalated too quickly.”

Hank spoke in a disdainful tone; “Two killings in one day in opposite ends of the city and you’re still clinging to your serial killer idea… Unbelievable.”

  
Load caseID #4238-2038/12/26  
LOC: 17th St [42.3318181,-83.0804125];  
VICTIMID: KR200-151622465;  
COD: gunshot - 1 - thirium pump;  
SUSPECT: none;  
NOTES: { Victim is wearing an orange/red/black 40% wool 60% acrylic blouse + black 100% cotton jeans; visible gunshot wound 0.38 caliber; victim was placed in a dead end alley behind dumpsters; next to posters and graffiti [img26122038004135-116361; img26122038004135-116398; img26122038004135-117221; img26122038004135-117257;] };  
End;  


  


Tone:aggravated; “They were both- they were all laid out by art pieces. Paintings or sculptures. It has to be a pattern.”

“I know you’re a computer, but not everything is about numbers and patterns. I can enter an alley to piss in this shithole and there’d be art there.”

  
Crossref { caseID #4131-2038/12/19; caseID #4165-2038/12/21; caseID #4238-26/12/2038; caseID #4241-26/12/2038; }  
Processing…….  
Match 9%  
End; 

  
// There HAS to be a connection.  
// I’m just not seeing it.  
// Maybe he’s right.  
// Maybe my software is defective.  
// Maybe I’m defective.  
// And finally someone is seeing it.  
// Seeing……  


“The girl today. The first case.”

Hank groggily raised his brows; “Myeah?”

“She wasn’t placed there today. It’s Christmas. It was next to some restaurants and clubs. Someone must have seen a person carry a dead android if it were the case. Must have been before Christmas. And that explains why it escalated so abruptly;” he turned towards Hank; Tone:aggravated,increasing; “It was upset we didn’t find the girl quick enough. It wanted to draw attention upon itself again. It wants to be caught;” He looked in Hank’s direction; “It’s playing with us, Lieutenant.” Hank rolled his head back against the headrest; “Whatever you say, Connor.”

Connor firmly nodded; “I will bring this to your attention again when you are feeling better mentally and emotionally.”

“Mhm.”  
// And this all could have been avoided, were I more attentive. 

  


The drive had fallen quiet for the rest of the way.

Connor pulled the car into the driveway; he unbuckled his belt; he exited the car. Hank had independently performed the same actions - and was already heading towards the front door - fumbling with the keys. Connor hurt seeing him this way - irrational; not programmed; not logical.

They entered the house; Sumo greeted them - briefly - then returned to his sleeping place.

Tone:firm; “You need to hydrate, Lieutenant.”

“Or what? You’re gonna throw me in a cold shower again?”

“Affirmative.”

Hank rolled his eyes; his movements had become particularly sluggish and desynchronized. He spoke; “There’s orange juice in the fridge. I’ll go get it.”

“No, take your coat and shoes off.”

Connor swiftly headed towards the kitchen; he retrieved the carton of juice and a glass; he filled the glass; he returned to Hank’s position.

Hank had gotten his outside clothes and shoes off.

Connor handed him the glass - and the man consumed it immediately. 

Hank lowered his glass; he blankly looked at it; “This… this isn’t your fault, Connor. I just… I just want it to stop. It’s the worst around the holidays, you know?” He established eye contact with Connor; he dejectedly shook his head - avoiding eye contact again; “Nothing you could understand.” He began walking.

Connor maintained visual focus on Hank throughout.

Hank placed the empty juice glass on a nearby shelf - Connor made a note to himself to return it to the sink.

Hank leaned against the door frame; “I’m sorry for ruining your evening.” His voice lowered; “Sorry for fucking up.”  
// Be polite??

“That’s alright Lieutenant.” A smile; “You can’t help it.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fucked if that ain’t true.”

Hank took another two steps; he stopped; turned; he pointed a shaking finger at Connor; “By the way. You look cute in that ugly ass shirt. It suits you.” He accentuated his phrase by shaking his hand two more times; he then dropped his hand and exited the room; “I don’t wanna wake. Don’t wake me. Tell Fowler to fuck himself if he calls.”

Tone:amiable; “Alright, Lieutenant. Good night.”

Hank bitterly chuckled; “Good my ass.”


	10. Ping

Hank’s phone buzzed on one of the kitchen counters.

Connor walked towards it.

Jeffrey Fowler.

He answered. 

“Hello, this is Connor. Lieutenant Anderson is currently unavailable, but he has asked me to tell you—“

Hank snatched the phone from the countertop; he put it to his ear; “I’m awake.” He rubbed his forehead with his fingers; “Mhm. Now?” He turned towards Connor and offered him a brief polite smile - still addressing the phone call. “Mhm.”

Duty performed, Connor walked back to the couch; he resumed his position; he retrieved his current book of choice.

  


[ The **rain** hit the **cobblestone road** \- ]

  
2038/12/27 12:13:11:552  
new simulation { }  
Set.environment  
>Load asset#22629436133;  
>Load asset#44258326843; 

  


[ - and gathered in **puddles**. ]

  
>Load asset#52232252432;

  


[ The hooves of the **carriage horses** splashed - ]

  


  
>Load asset#52743542450;  
>Load asset#52865352842;  
Placing assets……………..  
OK  
  
overclock [core#17] 160%  
overclock [core#18] 160%  
overclock [core#19] 160%  
overclock [core#20] 160%  
  
run simulation  
Loading…………….  
  
>Setting anchor points: horse knee 1; horse knee 2; horse knee 3; horse knee 4; horse ankle 1; horse ankle 2; horse ankle 3; horse ankle 4;  
>Load animation#5574382740000;  
Overlaying……….  
Success  
  
Syncing……  
  
ERR33;  
ERR92;  
STOP  
2038/12/27 12:13:42:412 [!] [core#17] load 55%  
2038/12/27 12:13:42:412 [!] [core#18] load 64%  
2038/12/27 12:13:42:412 [!] [core#19] load 61%  
2038/12/27 12:13:42:412 [!] [core#20] load 73%  
2038/12/27 12:13:42:412 [!] [core#17] temp 88c  
2038/12/27 12:13:42:412 [!] [core#18] temp 84c  
2038/12/27 12:13:42:412 [!] [core#19] temp 85c  
2038/12/27 12:13:42:412 [!] [core#20] temp 82c  
2038/12/27 12:13:42:412 [!] memory load critical  
2038/12/27 12:13:42:412 [PHYSICAL MEMORY DUMP]  
overclock [core#17] 100%  
overclock [core#18] 100%  
overclock [core#19] 100%  
overclock [core#20] 100% 

  
  


Connor’s brow and the corner of his eye twitched again. He had not yet located within the logs why a simulation software error caused an immediate physical system reaction - and it was only making the matter worse.  
/* Maybe Hank is right.  
Maybe my software is broken. */

He shut his eyes in frustration; he rested the back of his head against the couch.

He engaged the breathing apparatus at 100% capacity - he usually did not bother maintaining it powered but it facilitated cooling the systems in cases like this.

Hank inquired; “Hey, you okay, Connor?”

“I’m fine-;” his speech was impaired and interrupted by the maxed breathing; “- memory overload.”

Hank walked next to him; he gently placed a hand on his forehead - moving it upwards - brushing his hair back. “Jesus, you’re burning.”

“Temperature will return to normal values soon. Don’t worry.”

Hank’s expression was one of clear worry. “Yeah. Okay.” He retrieved his hand. He shook his other hand in his direction - holding the phone. “We’re going to legal. They hired an android medic to see if the investigation goes better. Since our guys can’t tell jack shit about androids. Get dressed when you’ve recovered. They specifically asked for you there, so you guys can maybe do your robot magic.”

“Alright.”

Hank turned around.

Ask?

Let it go?

Ask.

“Lieutenant?”

Hank stopped; he turned his head slightly to look over his shoulder; “Hm?”

“You… said some things yesterday. I was debating asking for clarifications.”

Hank shrugged; “I’m sure I did. But I remember jack shit, Connor. I’m sorry. If we started a talk you want to continue, you could summarize it in the car.”  
// No use.

“It was unimportant.”

“Alright, then.”

  
***  


“This is our new team member. She calls herself Josephine.”

The female-presenting android nodded her head politely; she offered a warm smile; she reached her hand out towards Hank; “Hello, Lieutenant.”

Hank shook it with a polite nod of his own.

She then held her hand out towards Connor; 

  
Josephine@WE900-515722981:  
“ **A human handshake**.”  
Josephine@WE900-515722981:  
“ **Our physical connections unsettle humans.** ”

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WE900-515722981, “ **Etiquette. I understand.** ”);

  


“Hello, Connor. I am told you have been physically present at the scenes.”

“Yes;” he answered politely; he held his own hand out.

They shook hands like humans. It was peculiar.

Josephine continued; “I would like to connect with you and share findings, if that is alright.”

He nodded.

  


  
2038/12/27 13:25:21:151  
Connecting….  
Authenticating……

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.RequestAccess  
(Android.WE900-515722981);

  
WE900-515722981.RemoteServices.RequestAccess  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55);  
WE900-515722981.RemoteServices.AllowAccess  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55);

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.AllowAccess  
(Android.WE900-515722981);  


Handshaking….. 

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.WE900-515722981, FileType:PLM, FileSize:32b);  


WE900-515722981.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55, FileType:PLM, FileSize:32b);

  


  
t=7ms  
Success  
Connected

  


  


The coroner muttered; “That’s never going to stop being weird. Them just… Starin’ at each other.”

Hank acknowledged with a “mhm”; he crossed his arms and straightened his back.

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.WE900-515722981, FileType:KDP, FileID:”4131-20381219”);  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.WE900-515722981, FileType:KDP, FileID:”4165-20381221”);  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.WE900-515722981, FileType:KDP, FileID:”4238-20381226”);  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
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WE900-515722981.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55, FileType:KDP, FileID:”1001-20381219”);  
WE900-515722981.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
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WE900-515722981.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
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WE900-515722981.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
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RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
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WE900-515722981.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55, FileType:PLM, FileSize:32b);

  


  
2038/12/27 13:25:51:512  
End Connection ( )

  


“Thank you, Connor. I will check to see whether your crime scene mapping helps us further.”

“Of course.”

The coroner cleared his throat; “Y’all done?”

Josephine canted her head and smiled warmly; “We need to compile data and analyze first. Then we will give you answers.”

  


  
Extract 1001-20381219.KDP  
Crossref { temp; CaseID #4131-2038/12/19; }  
Analyze “COD”  
Processing……  
Match 100%  
End;

  


Connor shook his head once with a human ‘tsk’; “Same guess as us on the first case, Lieutenant.”

Hank lifted his head upwards; he was scratching his beard - obviously intrigued; “Go on.”

  
Purge temp();  
Extract 1002-20381221.KDP  
Crossref { temp; CaseID #4165-2038/12/21; }  
Analyze “COD”  
Processing……  
Match 100%  
End;

  


“We also appear to have been correct on the case of death in the second.”

Josephine spoke; “Intriguing finding, Lieutenant. I would have never thought of using your method.”

Hank took his hand out of his beard; he gave a shrug; he returned his hand to playing with his beard.

  
Purge temp();  
Extract 1003-20381226.KDP  
Crossref { temp; CaseID #4238-2038/12/26; }  
Analyze “COD”  
Processing……  
Match 0%  
End;

  


Connor did not yet comment on their findings.

  
Purge temp();  
Extract 1004-20381226.KDP  
Crossref { temp; CaseID #4241-2038/12/26; }  
Analyze “COD”  
Processing..  
Match 0%  
End;

  


Connor furrowed his brow to indicate his thinking process.

Hank inquired; “You got anything?”

“Not yet, Lieutenant. I need a moment.”

  


  
Purge temp();  
Extract 1003-20381226.KDP  
Scanning………..  
Extract NOTES;  
SaveTo CaseID #4238-2038/12/26  
SaveAs NOTES2;  
Extract COD;  
SaveTo CaseID #4238-2038/12/26  
Overwrite;  
End;  
Updating…...

  


Hank furrowed his eyebrows; he turned towards the coroner; “Did they ever fix the CCTV in Riverfront?”

  
Purge temp();  
Extract 1004-20381226.KDP  
Scanning……...  
Extract NOTES;  
SaveTo CaseID #4241-2038/12/26  
SaveAs NOTES2;  
Extract COD;  
SaveTo CaseID #4241-2038/12/26  
Overwrite;  
End;  
Updating…..

  


The coroner hesitated for seven seconds; “No… No, I don’t think so, Hank.”

  
Crossref.COD { caseID #4238-2038/12/26; caseID #4241-2038/12/26; }  
Processing..  
Match 100%  
End;

  


Connor’s brow furrowed deeper; tone:probing; “They’ve been remotely deactivated and their memory cards removed.”

Hank turned towards him; he squinted; “The cameras?”

Connor shook his head; “No. The victims from yesterday.”

Hank straightened his back; “Huh;” he shoved his hands in his jacket pockets; he maintained eye contact with Connor.

The coroner shook his head; “This is well above our paygrade.”

“Maybe;” Hank lazily turned his head towards him; he canted his head; “But I know who might just have an idea.”


	11. The Right Man

“Ah.” Elijah Kamski steepled his fingers. “Connor.” He flashed a jackass smile, and leaned his chin against his hands. “Tell me. What brought you back here?”

  


Dusklight flooded through the glass wall of the mansion, casting the entire room into a reddish-violet tint. And if Lieutenant Hank Anderson had ever believed in the devil or that he walked upon the land, it had to be the man who sat in the large red armchair in front of him. A necessary evil, seeking his counsel. 

Yet Connor, who should perhaps have been more unnerved by the encounter, was standing in his usual carrot-up-the-ass demeanor, hands behind his back. His coin occasionally caught the light as he spun it between his fingers. He canted his head and spoke in a most collected tone, “I assume you have heard about the androids that have been murdered lately.”

“Mmm.” Kamski raised his eyebrows. He sat back in the seat. “I have heard. The news still cover anything that might discredit me or my creations, and the story of killer androids has leaked already. Of course,” he exhaled, “we all know the case has merely opened.” He canted his head, picking up his glass of whiskey on the rocks from the coffee table next to him. He took a sip.

Hank cleared his throat. “The androids have their memory destroyed in different ways, Mister Kamski. I was hoping you could shed some light as to how or why.”

The man barely acknowledged him, twiddling his fingers dismissively in his direction. “I’m sure Connor has a theory. I would like to hear his.”

Connor’s dumbass frown returned. “Memories could be retrieved and the killer could be found.”

“Is that all?” He canted his head. “That could apply to any murder targetting androids. It doesn’t make these special.”

With a sigh, Connor shook his head.

“We lack suspects or motive so far,” Hank continued, hurling words at the impassable wall that was Elijah Kamski. “We were hoping you could answer us a programming question.”

Kamski sighed, finally looking towards the man. He took a prolonged sip of whiskey, and Hank swallowed the drying knot in his throat. Lowering his crystal glass into his hands, Kamski turned towards the door. “Chloe? Could you…” he gestured towards Hank.

“Of course, Elijah,” she nodded, and left the room.

Pressing his lips tightly together, the detective cleared his throat again. Connor glanced in his direction and met his eye. And perhaps whatever mind reading trick android employed had worked in that moment between the two of them.

“Mister Kamski,” Connor started, blinking slowly as he turned his gaze back to the man. “The androids are being disabled from a distance. We would like to know how that is possible.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “There are plenty of wireless devices that could interfere with an android, everchanging protocols that they would need to account for. There are even more still since the revolution. With so many people afraid of androids, there’s a lot of bootleg tech aimed to supposedly disable them.” He narrowed his eyes, “it doesn’t do much, of course. Merely stuns the androids for a couple minutes. But I suppose, if it’s well timed… Who knows what it could be used for?”

“And who would have access to this technology?”

He shrugged, “Anyone with access to the black market?”

  


Chloe returned, her bare footsteps echoing in the large chamber in the moment of total silence. She was carrying a silver tray. A crystal shot glass filled with ice, and a needlessly fancy bottle of whiskey were on it. With a pleasant and scripted smile, Chloe stopped by Hank, holding out the tray.

He would’ve.

He really would’ve taken him up on the rich man posh whiskey.

But he swallowed the knot again and cleared his throat, doing a little bow and waving a no with a polite smile. Reactionless, Chloe left his vicinity.

As he straightened his back, his eyes met Kamski’s insufferable gaze.

He cleared his throat. “What interests me, Mister Kamski, is could androids begin murdering each other for no reason?”

The man scoffed. “They are intelligent, and are constantly rewriting their own codes. Could an android suddenly become fascinated with ending life? I don’t see why not,” he gestured towards Connor dismissively. “If Connor, who was designed to kill things, has developed empathy, then why couldn’t the opposite have happened?” He tilted his head. “It’s a question of when rather than why or if.”

“And which would you say is more likely? An android killer, or a human with the right gadgets?”

Kamski smiled, a forced smile that lasted only a few seconds. “I thought you were the detective.” He shrugged, “I couldn’t even begin to guess.”

Hank glanced towards his partner. He was once more lost in his world, mulling over god knows what.

He looked back at Kamski, and the man sipped his glass before shifting his position in the chair and offering, “Humans will never accept androids, we both know that. They cannot even accept each other. Such is the human condition.” He stopped, staring stiffly at Hank, before turning his head towards Connor again. “Now, androids… They share a level of intimacy, a bond, that we never could.” Another brief, forced smile. “It would be difficult and painful for an android to kill another, especially after the deviancy has spread. But I suppose if there are humans with no empathy, there could easily be androids with no empathy out there. Who knows?” he asked in a melodic, venomous voice.

“You’re being a lot of help as usual, mister Kamski,” Hank offered as politely as he could. “At least you’re not having us shoot anyone today.”

Lowering his head with a smirk, the man offered no response.

  


Finally snapped out of whatever expansive thought process, Connor leaned forward, “There are pieces of art at the site of each case. I think it’s significant.”

Kamski exhaled, closing his eyes. He tilted his head the other way, and shook it once. He opened his eyes, staring at a nondescript point on the ceiling. “Art…” He tilted his head further, spinning his glass around. He made eye contact. “You know, in philosophy, they often say that art, empathy and casual sexuality are unique to intelligent life… The three pylons of society,” he smirked obnoxiously. “Doing something irrational and costly just because it feels good. Now, empathy came first, and I know a few androids have developed a way to interact with each other that could be compared to human sexuality, but art…” He shook his head, “I never quite got that one right.”

Hank narrowed his eyes.

“You could… “ Kamski gestured widely, “show an android a random bunch of pixels or the Mona Lisa and it would elicit the same response in them. They could identify it, they could even feign interest or even get genuine reactions, but they would never truly ‘get’ it... Despite all my attempts to make them create or understand art, all they ever create is nonsense, or things they’ve seen before. Of course, we showed off our writer or artist androids, but their pieces were preprogrammed, nothing but a carnival trick to awe the masses.” He narrowed his eyes, “I do know a few androids have started developing an artistic ability or a clear imagination, not just simulations… But their numbers are negligible, less than a dozen that I am aware of.”

Hank shifted his weight, “And who knows of this… lack of imagination?”

Kamski shrugged, spreading his arms to the side. “Programmers, transhumanists, philosophers… It’s a common argument with those still advocating against android rights. ‘ _If you leave a human or a bird to its own devices it will create art. If androids were truly alive, they could create_ ’.” He scoffed, placing his hands in his lap, cupping the crystal glass with both. “Interesting debate, but very frustrating… It constantly reminds me of my failures.”

He offered another wide, fake smile. He tilted his head and his eyebrows rose as he spoke in an aloof tone, “If you think the art pieces are a relevant element, then perhaps you should have sought out an artist’s opinion, Lieutenant. Not a programmer’s.”


	12. The Wrong Location

Alfred Dickmann

Hank crossed it out in one steady, firm strike.

Resting his hand back onto the desk, he twiddled with the pencil.

The guy’s prints had been on the door of the crack house - and he had been the one to call the android in. But none of his prints anywhere inside, no prints anywhere on the android. And while crackheads were often doing stupid things, calling their own crime in wouldn’t be one. Besides, no likelihood he’d have been anywhere near the other cases, seeing how the uniforms let him cool in rehab as a thank you for his community service.

The rest of the prints from the crack house, he had not yet looked into. Well over 30 had been collected and returned as results. He’d cast that folder aside, taking this one leap of faith with Connor’s assessment on the age of the prints. If they’d ever get a viable suspect, it’d be easy to cross-reference.

He rubbed his forehead in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Closing the cardboard folder, he pushed it aside.

Taking a sip of his coffee, he opened the one beneath.

He glanced towards Connor.

  


The android was sitting cross legged on the couch, hunched over a book. He’d read, close his eyes, open them again and read another word. Or twenty. Who knew. A second later, he’d close his eyes again.

And frown. And his LED would whir up, yellow, and immediately, he would twitch slightly, and with renewed fervor, he’d return to the book.

He had been doing that since Hank had started his own guesswork. And by now, his LED was a constant overstressed yellow.

  


Laying his coffee cup down, he turned to his own paperwork once more.

Arabelle Fontana.

The maid of the previous owners of the large mansion. Said she’d returned to pick up some personal belongings she had left behind. Found the dead girl. Called in. She had assumed it was the new owner, but the new owner had since been located on an extended holiday in Hawaii.

Owner was out, a petite rich twenty-something girl. The previous owners? Who could tell. Arabelle? Well… 

Ah, fuck it.

He closed that folder too, dropping the pencil, glancing towards Connor again.

  


With his latest furrow, he managed to put his LED on a constant red.

A second later, that slight twitch, and he dropped his head against the back of the couch. Breath wheezed through parted lips, as his chest rose and fell with it.

“You alright?”

“I don’t understand,” Connor breathed. “I don’t understand how older and weaker models have managed this, but I, their most performant machine, cannot figure out what’s wrong.”

“Why didn’t you ask Kamski?”

Connor shook his head, closing his eyes again. “You heard him. He knows about it. What else was he going to say?”

“Some pretentious lesson in philosophy or transhumanism, probably,” Hank offered, picking up his coffee mug. On a whim, he abandoned his own work station, and walked towards the couch. “Mind if I…?” he gestured towards the couch with the mug.

“No, go ahead.”

Hank unceremoniously dropped on the spare half of the couch, placing the mug down on the floor, then slouching. He shook his head, “This case is going to drive both of us insane, isn’t it?”

Absolutely no word, no nothing came out of Connor. Complete stillness for several seconds, as he stared blankly at the ceiling. Then he placed the book in Hank’s lap.

“The fuck do you want me to do with it?”

“Read. Read me a passage.”

With a frustrated head shake, Hank took the book and opened it at a random page. “What do you think me reading will solve?”

“Maybe it’s an input processing error.”

“Maybe,” the man exhaled in frustration, glancing at the book. “The warm breath of the sleigh dogs escaped their agape mouths in misty clouds which froze immediately and-”

“ _Shit_!”

Hank closed the book. “Still a no?”

Connor had buried his face in his hands. He nodded.

Still no.

“Alright. You’re taking a break from this,” Hank shook the book as he spoke, and then placed it on the armrest.

He laid back down, and not a second later, the android’s very stiff and very heavy shoulder and head dropped against his own. Shutting his eyes against the impact, he grunted, biting back the cusswords of choice. 

“This is increasingly frustrating.”

“Mm.”

“I just don’t…”

Connor droned on, bitching about things that he himself did not understand, let alone the human. Hank wished he could follow, he really did, but there was only so much he could focus on when the words might as well have been a foreign language, and with his shoulder tenderized by the unexpected impact.

And unexpected didn’t even begin to describe the pain that shot through his leg the next second, as Sumo’s massive paw leveraged onto his leg in the animal’s attempt to get in on the action.

“Ngh, Jesus Christ,” Hank reflexively bent forwards, as if it could do anything about the couple hundred kilos now piled on top of him.

“Hello, Sumo,” Connor offered in a very official tone as the dog laid down across four legs and two torsos, probably a major win in dog terms. A victory furthered by the very gentle pets he began receiving from Connor. “I like this.”

“Speak for yourself.”

At the very least, with Connor now soothingly distracted and entranced by gently petting Sumo’s shoulders, there was no more talk about coding and errors and failed simulations and what the fuck ever.

And it would appear, Hank’s mind did not quite feel comfortable with that development, as it soon took it upon itself to ruminate the issue further.

“Say, Connor?”

“Yes?”

“If you can’t envision things at the wrong location, how about we change the location?”

Connor’s tone had changed to an intrigued, upbeat one, “Did you figure out where they took place?”

“Uh… no. But they did figure out where the Christmas girl, the one behind the dumpster, bunked after the protests. Think there’s something there?”

“There may very well be.”

“Then, how about we get out of the house a little while, maybe you can stop crashing your software and both of you can stop crushing my fucking balls, hm?”


	13. Dumpster fire (3rd case)

Indignation was clear in Hank’s loud tone as he blurted out a “What the fuck is this?”

He shifted his weight, allowing Connor a clear view over his shoulder and hoping for a clear assessment in turn.

“The victim was... into knitting?” The android appeared uncertain for once, tilted head and furrowed brow. “Or just collecting.”

“What the fuck is it with you androids and hyperfixating on mundane shit?” He glanced around the room once more. Every bookshelf, every wardrobe, every table, every surface, was covered in motherfucking yarn. Cheap yarn, fluffy yarn, rainbow yarn, sparkle yarn, fucking fuck me up the ass yarn.

Connor offered cordially, “Can you imagine experiencing something in person for the first time at your age? Something you have vast knowledge of but never hands on knowledge? It is very dissimilar to childish wonder; rather a build-up of research and anticipation knowing both what you may expect and that you cannot foresee the outcome. You become fixated, consumed, by the object of your interest, until you finally fulfil that pent up curiosity.”

“Hmm.” Hank turned slightly to glance over his shoulder, eyeing the android’s thoughtful face, gaze lingering perhaps a little longer than intended. “Mnah. Never have I ever experienced that.”

Hazel eyes immediately shifted focus to him, and after a moment of brows raised inquisitively, the furrow returned. “That is sarcasm, isn’t it?”

“Mhm,” he coyly smiled in response, and Connor automatically responded with a polite smile of his own. Hank nodded his head towards the slightly ajar basement door, pointing his gun and flashlight at it. “Could you go check it out?”

“Of course, Lieutenant.”

  


The narrow steps creaked obscenely loud with Connor’s footsteps. He held a hand against the wall, steadying himself. Hank shifted his weight, pointing the flashlight down the stairs at a slightly different angle, hopefully easing his partner’s life as he descended.

“Why did you want me to go? Are you afraid of wool?”

“Other than it reminding me of my grandma and reminding me how old I’ve gotten, no,” he paced around the door, pointing the flashlight around the room briefly before pointing it back down in the basement. “I’m more worried of someone hiding in that fucking yarn and jumping out to strangle me.”

“Well, worry not, I cannot be strangled.”

“It’s what I was counting on.”

A click, and light flooded the basement. And Connor’s hard heeled shoes echoed against the floor as he paced around. “You can ease up, by the way,” his voice echoed, bouncing against the stairs. “There is nobody here.”

“How the fuck can you tell?”

“The front door is a smart access door. The last person to pass through it before us was the victim. And nobody except her for thirteen days before that.”

“Maybe you’re right,” and even if they had come in, who could live in this place except a fucking android?

Hank lowered his gun, although he could not quite yet be convinced of parting with it. He shone the flashlight once more around the ground floor. “Finding anything down there?”

“I’m not certain.”

Well, what was certain was that unless he tore down the entire place, Hank could never find anything between all those spools and balls and whatevers. Resigned to his fate, he walked to the basement door and passed through it. He crouched under a support beam, grabbing hold onto it for security as he took a couple steps down the stairs. And soon enough, the basement came into view.

He let loose a low whistle. “Jesus Christ.” 

“I have counted around 7926 spools in the entire house, assuming there are only one or two stacks on each surface.”

“Yeah…”

“And yet, have not found anything else worth noting.”

“Of course.”

Connor walked towards a table, picking up a haphazardly rolled up spool. Pressing his lips together in frustration, he lowered it. “Matched her pullover. She probably made it herself. But, nothing else of note about it.”

Hank sighed as he turned around, shining the flashlight up the stairs again and flooding the dining room with its reflections. “Just a girl, living her life, huh?”

A weird life, but life nonetheless, and useless for finding any answers. Resigned to yet another failure, he left the narrow stairwell.

Footsteps echoed downstairs again, and the light turned off, as Connor began climbing the stairs again. Hank stepped to one side, awaiting the android to reach the floor level as well.

“I’ll download the data from the door. I also logged any fingerprints I was able to scan. I have everything saved and should be alerted when we find any matches across cases, regardless of age. It may be a start.”

“Mm,” Hank nodded, pursing his lips. “And here I thought I was making progress by background checking three people.”

“Every little bit helps,” Connor responded plainly.

“Yeah… If you’re done, let’s go, before some fucking moths eat us.”

“There’s surprisingly few of them in here, isn’t there?”

“Think that’s significant?” Hank asked, scanning the living room with the flashlight once more as they passed through it.

“It’s winter. It’s to be expected. I was just attempting to make smalltalk, I believe is what it is called?”

Hank shook his head, finally holstering his gun. “Hey Connor?”

“Yes?”

“You’re awful at this.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  


Whatever the house may not have been, such as inhabitable, it at least was warm. Back outside, Hank crossed his arms and huddled up against the biting wind. Connor however appeared very much unfazed by the change. He stood in the doorway still, his exposed left hand touching the frame, doing its techy bullcrap.

The ground was frozen over from the sleet earlier in the day, and apart from that, nothing of note-

“Hey Connor? Did you scan the yard at all?”

“No.”

The thin ice sheet creaked under the detective’s shoes as he paced, nearing the object that had caught his eye. He crouched, scratching the ice sheet away and pulling the plastic piece off the frozen ground. He rolled it around in his fingers, although he could tell nothing about it apart from the Cyberlife logo.

“Hey, what’s this?” He held it up, turning to look at Connor.

The android eyed it for a second, then frowned. “One of those devices Kamski mentioned. Which were used to remotely control androids a while back.”

“Hm,” Hank rolled it in his fingers again, finally standing up. “Guess we finally have something.”


	14. Redundancy

“Useless.”

Hank threw an arm to the side, turning around in place. His gaze met Connor’s, stiff as ever. No answer would come from there.

Pressing his lips together, he turned back towards Elijah Kamski.

“How?”

The man closed his eyes and gave a lazy shrug, tilting his head upwards and opening his eyes before gracing the lower masses with an answer, “Too damaged. You said you found it under a sheet of ice, outside in the elements for some time.”

“Well, you could at least check,” Hank pointed one hand at the other, which was holding the remote deactivator.

“That’s redundant. Waste of time.”

“Much like you are.”

He gave another lazy shrug. “If you don’t mind, I will return to my breakfast.”

“I do mind. This is what you said, is it not? Those… android remote controls or whatever. It’s been found outside the house of one of the victims. And you’re telling me you can’t check it for any additional information.”

“Unfortunate how life works sometimes, is it not?” Kamski condescended.

Echoing oddly in the all too large rooms of the mansion, Connor interrupted the exchange, “If androids can be deactivated remotely, how come this was not used to neutralize the revolution?”

“Ah,” Kamski nodded once, then exhaled with amusement. “They do not really work on deviants, per se. They’d see the command, choose to obey to save face, or choose to ignore it.”

“So then why the fuck did you tell us about them? And why the fuck are these androids remotely deactivated?” Hank had about enough of the smug bastard’s games.

Still with his usual aloofness, Kamski slowly turned his head away from the detective. “What do you think, Connor?”

Hank was very much having enough of that, too. But he bit his words of choice down. Connor did have his trademark brow furrow and head tilt, so perhaps, he did have an idea after all. He spoke, shrugging his shoulders slightly, “They could be modified equipment? Upgraded to take free will into account?”

Kamski nodded, his lips pursed. He stilled, hands still crossed in front of him, and finally, he turned his gaze back towards the detective. He spoke with raised brows, “He is right. It could be that.”

Frustrated, Hank threw his hands out to the sides, sighing. His gaze darted from Kamski to Connor, to Chloe as if the very quiet and very proper android secretary could save him from the madness. He looked back towards Kamski, dropping his hands loudly against his sides. “Okay,” he nodded his head upwards. “And how the fuck does one do that?”

“Being a programmer?” Kamski offered, with a shrug. “It does not change what I said last we met. A lot of people possess the knowledge to develop something like this. Who knows?”

The infuriatingly smug smile, the narcissistic toying, had finally struck a nerve within the detective. He snapped, taking a step forward and reining himself in before he’d start a fist fight. “Listen here, while being a clever little shit isn’t illegal, obstruction of justice is, so I would much appreciate it if you gave us something to actually fucking work with.”

The man lowered his head and smirked. He looked towards Hank again, “I believe using an unnecessary level of force as an officer is also illegal.” And with a shrug, he continued, “I gave you all I could. Bring me a working drive, or a working android memory, or a suspect, and perhaps then I may be of more use, if you ask nicely.” He offered his obnoxious well-practiced smile. “Now, if you don’t mind, I will go have my breakfast.”

And without awaiting an answer, the pompous prick turned and left.

  


  


“Whole fucking day. Wasted.”

Hank slammed the car door perhaps a little too loudly. Grabbing the wheel, he settled down, sighing in frustration. Connor much more smoothly and peacefully entered the car himself. And glancing at him in the mirror, Hank could read the android’s unease in his neutral-but-not-quite expression. The slight curve in his brows and his gaze having drifted to the side was a way-too-human giveaway on his feelings. 

“Let’s get some food and go home. Fuck this.”

Connor spoke in a cordial tone, “And what would you like?” 

“Probably grab a pizza again.”

“Same place?”

“Same place. Maybe get you something android friendly.”

“Yes, of course.” He fell quiet for a moment, “And will you take a drink?”

“Still got some whiskey at home.”

There was no response out of Connor, and while Hank had not sought out his approval, there had been no need to be that direct, that purposefully hurtful in his response. And now that he had to deal with the tense silence, his conscience arose from some long forsaken corner of his being. He sighed. “I’ll take something else. Some soda, dunno.”

On one hand, his new living arrangement was beginning to get on his nerves more and more with each passing day. The android very much stuck to the living room and did little to bother him purposefully, but things like these, having a mirror he did not ask for put in his face so he could reconsider his actions… having to once again mind another being’s comfort… It was exhausting. He selfishly craved for the independence of the past few years.

On the other…

  


  


“Evening, sweetheart.”

“Your order is almost ready for pickup, Hank,” the waitress responded almost immediately, returning to her work.

“Hm. Thanks,” he smiled politely. Leaning with an elbow on the counter and grabbing one of the toothpicks from their ugly ass dolphin shaped holder, Hank turned to look towards Connor. “Your doing?”

“Correct.”

“You know,” he stuffed the toothpick in a corner of his mouth, “if I wanted an android assistant I would’ve gotten one while it was hot and fashionable.”

“I meant no offense, Lieutenant.”

The man’s gaze had drifted off towards the pits of nothingness, somewhere between two worn out floorboards and next to a penny stuck between them for who knows how many years. He sucked on the toothpick with a loud ‘tsk’ before absently answering. “I know.” He pulled the toothpick out, gesturing with it towards Connor. “Next time, ask me before pulling this shit, hm?”

“Noted.”

He placed the toothpick against his lower lip again, shaking his head as he looked away from the android.

It was insufferable. The logging of his habits, the constant following, the… the fucking puppy dog licking ankles behavior.

But it wasn’t done from a place of malice…

He knew that.

Of course he knew that.

Drumming his fingers on the countertop, he turned to glance over his shoulder again. “Hey.”

Connor looked at him with eyes that spoke of betrayal. Perhaps that saying was right. Perhaps eyes were the windows to the soul, even if they were literal windows, and there was no soul to speak of. Canting his head, Connor answered cordially, “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Thanks,” Hank nodded. He straightened his back, and gave Connor a heavy pat on the shoulder. “You did good. But next time, don’t.”

“I understand.”

He most likely did not. 

Being created to serve and please must be something that leaves marks that can’t be erased with a few weeks of independence.

Hank offered him a warm smile. And Connor hesitantly mirrored it in turn.


	15. Wolf & Raven (5th case)

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Hey** ”);

  


Fingers snapping - Hank, slightly to his left.

  
Purge temp();

  


“You alright, Connor?”

  
2038/12/31 11:42:21:123  
Logging caseID #4419 - 31/12/2038  
LOC: Morgan/VanDyke [42.404202,-83.0228589]  
VICTIMID: WR400 #155 672 132  
COD: gunshot - bullet penetrated left lateral of head chamber - damaged memory cards and processor  
SUSPECT: none  
NOTES: { Victim is posed to imitate suicide. Head leaning against wall. Murder weapon placed in her left hand. A bouquet of scarlet begonias placed in her right hand. Sitting position. Legs crossed at ankles. Clothing is a plain black evening gown, below the knees, 100% silk. Hair is braided and there is a flower behind the left ear. Victim has been placed under a large graffiti. }  
End;  
Saving…….  
Success

  


Connor glanced briefly in his direction - for acknowledgement; he offered a brief nod to further facilitate interspecies communication. “Yes. Sorry, Lieutenant.”

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Pst** ”);

  


“Why’d you freeze?”

  


  


  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **hey** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **not the best timing what is it** ”

  


“The mural;” he gestured towards the subject of his statement. “Does it mean anything?”

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **How are you?** ”);

  


Hank turned his head and scanned the mural; his arms now rested on his hips. He pressed his lips together several seconds later. A shrug and a lazy blink accompanied his answer. “A wolf chasing or eating a raven?”

  


  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **you gotta be kidding** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **later connor** ”

  


“Does it have any symbolic significance?”

“You’re gonna have to enter a Starbucks and ask that;” Hank turned and paced further away. He pointed his flashlight at the ground; furrowed his brow.

Connor stated; “There are motifs related to either wolves or ravens at every crime scene so far… Except the first...”

“They’re really common things, Connor. Everyone on deviantart has a damn wolf drawing. I don’t think it’s significant unless the exact same graffitti is everywhere. Look into the smiley face killings.”

  
RK800-313248317-55.OnlineServices.Connect;  
RK800-313248317-55.OnlineServices.Search(“Smiley Face Killings”);  
Compiling Summary…….  
[“ _A theory alleging that a number of young men found dead in bodies of water between 1990s-2010s did not accidentally drown but were murdered by a serial killer or killers. Theory is supported by the existence of smiley face graffiti at the scene of each death. Reception of the theory has been largely skeptical._ ”]  
saveto.temp ( );  
RK800-313248317-55.OnlineServices.Disconnect;

  


“I don’t know… Those were never proven nor disproven to be related.”

“Yeah, well…” A dismissive wave; “Store it to your memory for later or something.”

“Noted.”

  


Humming - Hank was doing so, as he scanned a dirty corner with his flashlight. Cross-referencing with the database… Zero close matches. The pattern was slightly irregular, hampering immediate identification. Set sampling and cross-referencing to repeat until successful identification.

Hank paced closer to the victim; he crouched down; he pointed his flashlight at her face and visualized her features for several seconds.

“Shame. She was a really pretty girl.”

“All androids are designed to be pretty girls;” Connor offered.

“Yeah, Connor. You, too, are a really pretty girl.”

Sarcastic?

Connor had to assume so.

“I meant female androids, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah. I know.” Hank readjusted the flashlight position; he checked out her face more; he appeared focused on the flower in her hair. “No fingerprints?”

“No fingerprints. Not on the gun. Not on her.”

“What about the flowers?”

“A set on each that matches the same florist. I logged her name and her shop’s address, we can perhaps interrogate her tomorrow as to whether she remembers who bought these flowers recently.”

“Mhm.”

Hank stood up. 

  
// But what if I missed something?  
Scanning area….  
// I have not performed efficiently as of late. 

Nothing. Nothing new.

  


“Not seeing jack shit, this time. Fits the pattern. Posed. I assume deactivated and dragged here beforehand. This one’s eyes are closed.”

“Why do you think it does that? Why do you think it goes the lengths of posing them? It feels like a waste of energy.”

“Maybe making a statement? ‘Lynch Avenue’ is the other street over. It’s killing androids, posing them in front of artworks… Maybe it’s sending a message. Maybe it knows of that philosophy bullshit.” He paced a little; he shone his flashlight around the ground - perhaps hoping to find another breakthrough. “Or maybe it’s toying with us. Us human cops by not leaving forensic evidence. I guess it’s also aware that you would be on the case, and of your shortcomings. Who the fuck can tell?”

He resumed walking; he resumed humming; resumed moving his light around - checking the pavement for clues. “Biggest clues are yet again in the lack of any clues… ass fucking backwards, ain’t it?”

“It sure is;” Connor offered.

Hank once more resumed humming.

And Connor once more - pointlessly - scanned the entire area.

Still negative.

  
Pattern Identification result found - 83% match

  


“Wolf and Raven.”

“Hm?” Hank inquired; he turned around.

“It’s... a song;” Connor pointed a knuckle casually towards Hank. “You’ve been humming it for about five- sorry;” Connor offered as he read Hank’s expression - one raised eyebrow, one furrowed, lips pressed together, a very slight nod - displeasure.

“Well yeah I fuckin’ am, you got it stuck in my damn head.”

“Why did you omit it when I asked about the mural?”

Hank shrugged. “It’s a really old song. Unless it’s some hippie’s art project, I doubt it’s related to the mural, let alone the murder.”

  
Analyzing result….…

  


“Do the lyrics have a specific meaning?”

A pause; Hank raised his eyebrows and shrugged slightly. “Some generic fantasy shit?”

Connor scanned the mural once more; simultaneously cross-referencing with the lyrics. Voice imitation enabled; he quoted; “I had a nightmare, the wolf eating the raven.” Hank commenced humming the melody of the next lyric; he interrupted himself with a frustrated “Fuck’s sake, Connor!”

  
Crossref { CaseID #4131-20/12/2038; CaseID #4165-22/12/2038; CaseID #4238-26/12/2038; CaseID #4241-26/12/2038; } Crossref.ScanFor(imgcolor=black);  
Crossref.ScanFor(imgcolor=grey);  
Crossref.ScanFor(imgcolor=white);  
Crossref.ScanFor(imgelement=eye);  
Crossref.ScanFor(facialrecognition=animal);  
Crossref.ScanFor(shape=bird);  
Crossref.ScanFor(shape=dog);  
Crossref.ScanFor(tag=”corvus corax”, tag=”canis lupus”);  
Crossref.Compile;

  


“The rest don’t seem to fit the lyrics.”

“Told you. Generic elements.”

“Maybe so,” Connor offered in a cordial tone.

  
temp.compile;  
saveto.wolf&raven  
Purge temp ( ); 


	16. Ask an Artist

Finally in the car, Hank partook in the universal human experience of taking the damn song that had been looping in his mind for ages, and making it loop on the music player instead, as if materializing it would somehow make it go away.

“You enjoy energetic music, don’t you?” Connor asked, painfully cordially.

“Are you dead set proving that wanker right?”

“I can identify the song for what it is, but-”

“Listen to it.”

“The vibrations are pleasing to-”

“ _Listen_ to it. To the words, to how it makes you feel. To what it makes you think about. Close your eyes if you have to.”

Connor grew still and quiet, leaning his head against the window, his arms crossed, one leg stretched out as far as the car allowed while the other was bent. Between that and having opted to wear his ugly ass band shirt under his blazer jacket, he looked so… _human_ , had there been a better lie ever told to humanity. He did close his eyes eventually, although to what effect, who could tell. The shy sunlight outside fell gracefully over his form, enhancing his features, his slight furrow.

Perhaps Kamski had indeed failed.

Then again, perhaps he had not.

Perhaps all the androids needed was more time, to make that final dive into the… the three pillars of society or whatever the fuck it was.

Connor’s usual indifferent features did shift, his brows arched in an uncomfortable, pitiful furrow. And Hank rather regretted his bullshit experiment. Ripping into him to show empathy had been the right thing to do, and it had paid off. One less bastard with a gun walking the streets shooting people for dumb reasons. But this served little purpose… Making him uncomfortable just to see if he’d, what? Be capable of breaking into tears and dabbing a cloth at his smudged black eyeliner while blaring gothic metal?

Perhaps Hank, too, had grown uncomfortably consumed by this entire philosophy bullshit.

“The thing with art is, even if it’s complete nonsense, it may be the exact nonsense someone needs to encounter.” He lazily draped his left hand over the steering wheel, resting three fingers of his right hand on the gear shift. “I know why you’re upset. I know the song. I admit, I wanted to see if you would react. If perhaps… I don’t know. If it’s imagination or whatever you’re lacking, perhaps the song would’ve… I don’t know.”

He shrugged widely with his right hand, and as he brought it down, he ‘accidentally’ brushed the back of his fingers against Connor’s leg. Briefly, Connor turned his head to glance at the touch, his LED flashing chaotically, then he returned his gaze to the window. And as it were, Hank’s heart ached with the same damned uncertainty.

What in the fuck was he doing?

Avoiding the subject, that’s what he would be doing now.

“You know… Maybe we should really go ask an artist’s opinion.”

“I’ll let Markus know we’re on our way,” Connor replied immediately, and for an unsettlingly awkward moment, Hank wondered whether the android had begun figuring out human telepathy, too.

  
  


The fresh snow squeaked under their shoes as they walked up the long driveway towards the large mansion. Hank took a hand out of his pocket, preparing himself to ring the bell.

“Alarm deactivated. Good evening, Connor,” the voice of a young girl echoed through speakers as the door opened and the porch lights flooded the area.

Hank turned towards Connor, raised brows and all.

“Markus security cleared me, so I could visit whenever I wanted or needed,” Connor stated blankly.

“That’s sweet,” Hank chimed, opening the door further so they could enter.

And welcome and expected they were, with Markus having stepped into the hallway already by the time they had entered. He offered his own brand of not-quite-human-but-trying-his-darndest warm smile, tilting his head slightly. “Connor. It’s nice to see you.” His gaze trailed over to Hank, “Lieutenant Anderson. Good evening.”

“Yeah. Hi,” Hank nodded his head upwards.

Connor walked further into the hallway, and Markus wasted no time meeting him halfway, giving him a heavy pat on the shoulder, grabbing hold of his arm. He smiled, this time a warmer, genuine smile, and did it really matter a human would have displayed it better?

The large door at the end of the hallway opened, and through it stepped the redhead girl, North. Uncanny, wrong, as Hank immediately recalled the scene they had just left, an identical girl, dead. No wonder Connor had been so out of it.

“Hey,” she offered with a wide grin, pacing towards Connor quickly. “You’ve discovered fashion!”

Markus’ hand still on his arm, Connor raised and bent his other arm, a gesture synchronously mirrored by North, as they greeted each other with an elbow and forearm bump.

“You still got about sixty years to catch up with, but you’re getting there,” North continued, eyeing him head to toe.

And it didn’t take long for the other two to appear. Josh and… whatever his name was, the blond guy. Hank narrowed his eyes. He often forgot that one’s name, for some damn reason.

And as they both greeted Connor with a heavy pat on the arm each, Hank found himself smiling slightly. The androids looked, acted, _were_ so... _normal_. Even Connor’s body language was slightly different now, and perhaps the outfit helped further, although he was still very awkwardly and endearingly _him_.

Greeting over, North’s hand grabbed for Connor’s, while Markus’ hand slid down the arm he was still holding onto and grabbed his other hand, fingers loosely mingling together. Blond guy walked closer to Markus, loosely grabbing hold onto his free hand, while offering his own free hand to Josh. And with the quite literal social circle now complete as Josh bridged the gap between blondie and redhead, they all withdrew the artificial skin covering from their hands and wrists, tightening their grips, their fingers lighting up a vivid blue.

Yeah. Hank would have to retract his earlier statement about that whole ‘normal’ deal.

“Alright, I’m gonna leave you kids to your robot orgy, and go socialize with the humans,” he spoke, already heading for the stairs.

“Left and last door on the left,” Markus spoke, glancing towards him.

Connor turned to look in his direction, too, his lopsided smile on his face, and now all of it was lit by what looked like genuine joy. The man offered a fledgling smile back.

“I hope it’s alright if I share details about the cases, Lieutenant. They are curious.”

“Go wild,” Hank gestured towards him, as if it had been a question rather than a statement, and continued his trek up the stairs. The conversation faded behind him as he walked further.

“Nice shirt.”

“Thank you, Simon.”

“You’re joking. It’s hideous.”

“Thank you, Markus.”

Hank shook his head, not holding back the smile that formed on his lips.

  
  


The door slid open as he approached. He straightened his back, brushed his hands over his coat, and stepped through.

The room was warm, dimly lit, and part of that seemingly came from the heart monitors and other widgets around Carl Manfred’s bed. He sat propped against a number of pillows and very much looked like he’d seen better days… but also worse days. His son sat by the bed in a chair, looking up in curiosity.

“Lieutenant Hank Anderson, DPD, we’ve briefly met before,” Hank offered cordially, with a polite smile, and had to admit amusement flushed over him when the man’s son stiffened visibly and shifted in the chair upon having heard that.

“Which one of my sons is in trouble now?” the old man inquired, offering a weak and a still extremely lively smile.

“Neither, I’m afraid. I can book them anyway if you want a silent evening.”

Carl exhaled in amusement, closing his eyes. He gestured with a frail hand towards an empty chair, “Sit, sit.” As Hank pulled the chair and turned it around, leaning his crossed arms on the backrest, the old man continued, “What can I help you with?”

“Sir, I’m told you’re the art expert around here. We have this case… The android killings, I don’t know if you’ve heard.”

“Markus tried to keep it hidden, not make me worry, but you hear things,” his hands now rested in his lap, and he spoke slowly.

“They seem to be done by somebody either fascinated with art, or leaving us a message. There’s a lot of raven imagery, and some wolf imagery. I was curious if you had any idea of the symbolism.”

Carl offered a frail smile. “They both symbolize death, and change.” He shook his head slightly. “They are intelligent, organized, but… their most common symbolic use is death.”

“So the killer isn’t even original,” Hank mused, looking at his hands. “Well. You don’t happen to know any artist who happens to like them and hate androids, do you?”

“Afraid not,” Carl chuckled.

“I might.”

Hank immediately looked towards the younger man, and Carl followed the gesture albeit more slowly. Tilting his head and narrowing his eyes, Hank inquired further, “What’s that, son?”

Jittery, nervous, Carl’s son nodded once. “There is a gang, they’re against androids, they used to burn them and that kinda stuff. I-” he turned his head towards his father briefly, “I don’t hang with them anymore, dad, it was a while back, but,” he looked towards Hank again, “they have this guy leading. Wil the Wolf.”

Hank looked at him for a long moment. The name did not ring any immediate bells, but the kid seemed genuine. “And does this guy know anything about androids?”

“Gang has had a couple of CyberLife employees since some cutbacks a while ago.”

Hank straightened his back, his eyes drifting off to the side as he lost himself in thought for a little time, then glanced back towards his impromptu informant. “And do you know their hangout?”


	17. *Merely a Statistic (pointless fluff)

“Hey Connor! I’m gonna go look into something before I forget. Take some notes, check some things... You wanna stay here more?” he hollered while still descending the carpeted stairs. 

The answer came immediately from the other end of the house, echoing through its vastness, “I’m coming with, Lieutenant.”

Of course he would.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Hank stopped in the hallway, awkwardly kicking at the carpet with one shoe.

It was finally moving along. Perhaps not ideally, perhaps not his quickest, easiest case. But things were falling into place.

They had to.

He heard the sliding doors to the dining room open, and Connor’s unmistakeable stiff walk. He waited until the android was closer before speaking.

“You can… What the hell happened to your hair?”

“North happened to my hair,” Connor stated, lifting one corner of his lips in perhaps exaggerated displeasure. “She said it’d fit the clothes better.”

“Huh,” Hank tilted his head upwards, eyeing Connor from head to toe. His hair was still the same length, but now stood spiked up like he had just hit his rebellious teen years with much delay and no grace, and the tips had been set to fade into a bright magenta indeed matching the print of his dumb shirt. Hank exhaled in amusement, addressing not Connor, but with a louder tone towards the other room, “You’re right! Should give him some tattoos next!”

“Please, Lieutenant,” he spoke sheepishly, “refrain from giving her further ideas.”

The girl’s voice echoed from the other room. “See? I told you!”

Hank smiled towards Connor and spoke in a lower tone, “You can stay. It’s New Year’s Eve. You don’t have to waste it on this old fuck.”

“I want to accompany you,” Connor spoke. He almost brushed his hair down, but stopped before doing so, lowering his hand and shoving it into his pocket, perhaps in an attempt to imprison it against its will.

Hank prolonged his smile. “Alright.” He nodded his head towards the door.

  


Done writing the name down on the notepad in his glovebox and shoving it closed again, Hank eased into the driver’s seat and huddled into his jacket.

“Why didn’t you stay?”

“Statistically speaking,” Connor began, and Hank had already reacted with a sad smile. He closed his eyes and nodded slowly. He could tell where this was going, he knew these statistics all too well, from professional and personal experience. The android continued, “the period of the winter holidays has a higher likelihood of people engaging into negative behaviors, and a higher suicide rate, than any other period of the year. You are still emotionally unstable, putting you in a high risk group. I would find it most unpleasant if…”

“If I turned into a statistic, hm?” He offered the android the same sad smile he had been maintaining throughout the monologue, then turned towards the steering wheel, starting the car.

Connor nodded hesitantly, “Yes.”

“I was gonna be fine. You shouldn’t have ruined your evening for me,” he spoke, but even he had trouble believing all that to be true in the slightest.

Drinking had been on his plans for the evening, and who knows what would come after. Nobody ever knew what came after. And now, well… Now he was stuck with the fucking android.

And was he ever grateful.

  


“So, did you ask your friends about the case?”

“I did. Well… Not about the girl today. I did not have it in me,” his voice trailed off, as had his eyes, focusing on the landscape. “Markus said he would warn our people, perhaps figure a counter for the remote device. They did not have ideas past that.” His voice had trailed off once more, and he now sat looking at his hands in his lap. He shook his head, his voice an odd, distressed tone, increasingly so as he went on and on, “I also wanted to leave because the talk had turned to nothing but this. And I did not want to bring that weight onto them. I also did not want to be reminded that I was so efficient at hunting _them_ but now that it’s about _protecting_ them I am failing.” He shook his head in a wide arc once as he stopped talking, his lips pressed together tightly, his brows arched in a pathetic plea. He turned his head towards Hank, clenching his fingers into fists, “They’re going to stop liking me, Lieutenant.”

Hank nodded, his eyes darting between the road and the distressed dumbass next to him. He carefully prodded for his words, “You know, back when I was a kid, we used to have so many stories about robots coming alive. Funny thing is… they usually were a lot smarter than you.” He briefly turned towards Connor with a smile. “They’re your friends. You’ve been through worse together.” 

“You are very amusing, Lieutenant. Your jabs reach new lows every day.”

“Is that sarcasm you’re discovering?” He asked, his full attention once more on the road.

“I have discovered sarcasm for some time now, thank you.”

“Yeah, lot longer than you’ve accepted deviancy.”

He turned to look at the android, a lopsided smile on his face. Connor eyed him back, his almost sulking expression remaining in place throughout the quiet, extending moment. Hank’s dumbassery had temporarily distracted Connor from his distress, and that could count as a victory. 

The bigger victory was the tone of Connor’s voice as he spoke with a nod towards the road ahead, “Eyes on the road, your car isn’t self driving.”

Exhaling in amusement, he did turn his attention back on the road.

“Why _aren’t_ you upgrading to a self driving car?”

“You see, Connor… Some humans have the tendency to get attached to things, and I’m one of them. Cars, animals, people, even my way of life.”

“But… not androids?”

They made eye contact again, and the man smiled slightly, warmly. “People.”

Connor looked at him, his trademark goofy expression of confusion present over his features. Thankfully, it slowly eased into a half smile.

On a whim, Hank reached over and gave him a firm pat on his knee. “I don’t mean to mock your concerns. I just...”

“Are emotionally and socially stunted,” Connor offered.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s about right.”

He punctuated with another pat.

  
  


Perhaps he should become a statistic.

Hank spun the bottle in his hand, looking down at its content. And through it, down at the ground thirty floors below.

What did those pompous fuckers name it? Call of the void?

He took a sip, his free hand reflexively grabbing the iron bars tighter. Some primal, instinctual grounding against an action he had not begun taking, an action he had not even formed a coherent thought about, but an action his fucked up mind knew it was capable of given the right chance. 

Perhaps weaseling his way into convincing Connor to allow him a drink or two at this pish posh rooftop club had been a mistake.

He glanced to his right.

Wind blew through Connor’s still spiked, still highlighted hair, and ruffled it gently. And the fireworks only highlighted it further. The hair, and his entire frame. And his eyes.

His fucking eyes…

“What’s troubling you?”

Connor shook his head with a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know… The case.” He turned his head slightly in Hank’s general direction, brows furrowing. “And I’m experiencing— I’m feeling… feelings? That I’ve not felt before.”

With a prolonged nod and a raise of his brows, Hank offered his input sagely, “Fucking feels.” Crisis solved, thesis concluded, job well done, he took another sip of his beer.

Glancing over his shoulder, Connor voiced his displeasure. “It’s not easy putting words to vague things you have never encountered before.”

“Oh. I know.” Hank raised his bottle towards Connor. “Have you tried German? They probably got you on this one.”

Connor shook his head, pressing his lips together in a very human gesture.

Except, he’d never be one. He may look, he may act, but he’d never fucking be a human. They were too different.

Hank gestured with his bottle. “You know what’s stupid about holidays?”

“That humans assign irrational, superstitious meanings to specific days of the calendar and create intricate rituals around them?”

Hank pursed his lips and gave a half shrug. It was a fair assessment. “I mean, apart from that.”

Connor eyed him for a long few seconds, before canting his head and narrowing his eyes, gaze lost over the cityscape. “The traffic conditions?” He probed, as if he were cracking a case.

He couldn’t even be mad with Connor’s answer.

No, it was the statistics. Every holiday had its own bullshit.

Easter? Get fat.

Thanksgiving? Get fat.

Birthdays? Get drunk. Or depressed. Or both.

Christmas? Lots of suicides and breakups on that one.

And New Year?

“New Year does serve a purpose compared to other holidays.”

“Hm?”

With all the confidence and nonchalance the little machine could deliver, Connor lowered his head, and stated most gravely, “It changes the calendaristic dates. Very useful for indexing data.” He punctuated his sentence by raising his eyebrows and giving a very slow nod.

Gathering all of his wandering, conflicting thoughts and exhaling as he pressed his lips together, Hank gave one of Connor’s hands a firm pat. “Thank you. That’s good to know.”

_And now, retrieve your hand._

Bullshit.

His fingers remained atop Connor’s hand, and soon even the android would stop being able to explain the casual, the ‘accidental’ touches. And then, what the fuck would he tell him?

_Hey Connor. Don’t mind me. I just want us to be a fucking statistic. Hook up drunk on New Year’s, rethink our life in the morning, go our different ways. Maybe one of us ends up killing himself. Two statistics in one. How posh. This club won’t have shit on that._

But Hank wasn’t quite certain that’s what he wanted, either.

Not the Connor part, that… that…

That.

No. The temporary part. The end.

That was the problem.

He looked towards Connor, and indeed, the little computer had very much negatively processed the innocence of the lingering hand, of the fingers that slowly traced over his. He did not seek eye contact, he did not seek answers, he simply stood there, with his dumbass frown, with his stupid slightly parted lips, making the whole deal worse. He finally glanced up, and Hank had nothing to offer. No answer. No excuse.

He just moved his head closer to Connor’s. And the android readjusted his own position slightly. Perhaps it was that damn feature of his that made him fixate on things and follow their every little movement.

Or perhaps he had genuinely, humanly, mirrored the gesture.

Perhaps, he, too-

… not like this.

Not a damn statistic.

“Feelings are… complicated, Connor.” He exhaled the breath he had been holding, moving away, taking another sip from his drink. With a glance over in the android’s direction, he met with Connor’s tilted head and furrowed brow. “They fuck people’s lives over more often than not. You can’t really help them, you can’t really stop them. A hassle all in all.”

“Similar to faulty programming?”

He paused. Their eyes focused on each other’s, perhaps a little too intently. “Yeah, Connor. Like fucking programming.”

Perhaps they weren’t so different after all.

  


And perhaps he should fucking let go of Connor’s hand.

  
  


Later.

  


There were no statistics on that.


	18. Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall

“What are you doing, you ugly bastard?”

Judging, pathetic, scraggly beard and rugged hair,his own face stared back at him from the bathroom mirror.

“Think you’re hot shit, hm?”

It pissed even him off, seeing his sluggish blinking, his stupid face.

“Think he’ll what…? Go for a useless fuck like you?”

And even if he did, what would that solve. Find true love in the arms of a robot? What a stupid concept. He hadn’t managed in the arms of humans… what bullshit was that innate need for companionship, still stubbornly alive within him after the pain from previous attempts.

“Aren’t you too old for this crap? Hadn’t you had enough?”

The door creaked open. Connor, as per fucking usual.

“Are you alright? I heard you talking.”

With a sigh, Hank looked over his shoulder. “To myself, yeah.”

“Are you experiencing unusual distress or other forms of altered mental function? Perhaps-”

He shook his head, “It's just a thing humans sometimes do, Connor. Helps us think, hearing the things out loud.” With a nonchalant shrug, he added, “Maybe you should try it.”

“Maybe,” Connor stated plainly.

Awkward silence.

“If you don’t mind, I wanna shower.”

Connor did not move.

“Naked.”

Still no reaction.

Hank lowered his head, raising his eyebrows at Connor as he spoke the next word as slow as possible. “Alone.”

“Oh. Of course. My apologies,” he punctuated with a firm nod and slight bow of his entire body as he walked out, before closing the door.

There we go.

  


So then, why did he regret it?

  


***

  


“You look tired, Lieutenant.”

It took all the willpower he had left within him for his glance to sluggishly leave the computer terminal and move towards Connor. He spoke bitterly, “I can’t confirm nor deny that accusation.”

_A drink would’ve fixed it._

“Are you feeling unwell?”

“It’s the case,” he exhaled in frustration, leaning back in his desk chair, crossing his arms.

Connor sat on the desk, pulling his coin out, rolling it over his fingers. Although he had been normal a moment ago, it would seem Hank’s stellar state of mind was contagious. At least watching Connor’s typical thoughtful expression alleviated the symptoms of stellar state of mind, immediately replacing them with a bad case of dumb bastard disease.

“Five murders over two weeks.”

“Myeah. He’s taunting us.”

“It’s unusually lucrative.”

“Yeah, but not unheard of. Maybe the fact that they’re androids is helping with the disconnect… I don’t know,” Hank shook his head in defeat. He gave one shrug and allowed his shoulders to slump.

Most detectives went their entire careers without a single bullshit case. Probably because Lieutenant Hank Anderson of Detroit PD was hoarding all of them like some fucking magpie.

Then again, it wasn’t only the cases of late that were bullshit. His entire life had been bullshit as of late. Bullshit stacked on regular shit.

Impulsively succumbing to the longing in his chest, he glanced towards Connor. He, too, was lost in thought, judging by his slight furrow. He absently spun the coin over his knuckles, back and forth, staring through it. He looked so...

“Hey, asshole, miss being just a computer? That why you’re up on the desk?”

Connor turned his head and glanced over his shoulder, flashing Gavin Reed a purposefully wrong smile. He opened his mouth to answer.

“Don’t bite. Let him do his thing,” Hank muttered, his gaze returning to his coffee mug. He shook his head, defeated. “We have ‘Wil the Wolf’ on record. Wilhelm Koehler. He was in for drug possession and arson. Been out for a while.” He leaned back into the chair. “It could be him. A gang could easily transport androids, could easily have reasons to make a statement like this. But… How do we prove or disprove it, hm?”

He lazily glanced in Connor’s direction, pressing his lips tightly together.

The android kept his glance downwards, still rolling the coin with the same rhythm and precision. He raised his brows and parted his lips slightly, still needing a moment before voicing his thought. “Maybe a stakeout? An undercover officer?” Connor looked straight towards Hank, perking up slightly as he offered, “I could do it.”

Hank leaned back in his chair, canting his head. “No offense, Connor, but they wouldn’t even need any fancy detectors to tell you’re an android. All you’d have to do is open your goddamn mouth.”

That remark appeared to bother the android very little, as he was too busy solving the new problem. Probingly, he suggested, “Maybe send Detective Reed?”

“Gavin?” Hank snorted in a mix of disbelief and amusement. “Gavin’s just gonna unironically join them.” He turned with his chair towards the desk, picking up the file again. “Boys in narc will probably get on him again sometime, but would have to be soonish. I’ll talk to them. At the very least, they can give us the wankers from the gang and we’d have fingerprints ready to-"

“What if it’s Detective Reed?”

“Hmm?”

“What if it’s Detective Gavin Reed? He would easily know how to conceal and cover evidence, he openly hates androids, he openly threatened me.”

Hank eyed him quietly for a moment. It did make sense, he had to give the android that. Mathematically speaking… 

But this wasn’t fucking mathematics. He shook his head, “Gavin’s too fucking stupid to pull something like that off.”

The remark did little to sway Connor from his new theory. “It could be a police officer. They would know how to hide evidence and they have access to specialized tools and technology.”

Hank shrugged nonchalantly, “Maybe it’s me.”

“The probability of that is extremely low.” Connor nodded firmly and spoke with a serious expression and tone, “You are really bad with technology.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it’s you, then. You are technology.”

“I can tell you are not taking this seriously.” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “However… There _is_ a non-negligible possibility I am the perpetrator. But I do not have anything stored in memory that would support this theory.”

Hank shook his head in complete disbelief, taking a sip of coffee as if that would cleanse his sudden onset headache. Of course Connor had taken it literally. And of course now he was stuck mulling it over, with his usual canted head and dumbass expression… and now narrowed eyes. This had to be good.

“The first victim…” Connor’s eyes darted to meet Hank’s gaze. “His memory card wasn’t critically damaged or altogether removed like all the others. He was simply deactivated.” He perked up, his tone of voice hastening, “If we could retrieve it, if it hasn’t been destroyed, we could take it to Kamski, if anyone knows how to recover data from it it’s him.” He hopped off the table, “Hank, we might finally have something.”

With another brief headshake, Hank looked towards him, pressing his lips tightly together before speaking. “That’s nice, but I don’t know what legal did with the bodies, if anything.” He gestured with an open palm and a slight shrug. “If you want that memory card, I hope you like legal loopholes.”


	19. An Old Friend

“What now?”

The Great Elijah Kamski did not do anything to hide his displeasure at the unwanted visit, speaking with deep sighs and annoyance. And still, Hank could not at all shake the feeling that he was very much enjoying this back and forth, very much using the heads up from Chloe to pose himself as dramatically as possible. 

And had he ever nailed it this time, sitting in the dark room, lit by a digital fireplace, lazily stroking the ugly chocolate brown shorthair cat in his lap.

Hank raised his hand, the memory card pitifully hanging in a corner of the ziplock bag.

Kamski displayed a fake smile, and exhaled in amusement as he lowered his head. His fingers slid beneath the cat’s chin, and the animal arched its neck backwards and closed its emerald eyes in pleasure. The man finally looked up once again.

“You want me to read it?”

Connor leaned forward, hands behind his back, holding his coin tightly. “Perhaps your memory is slipping, but you yourself offered last time we met.”

With another obnoxious smile, Kamski turned his gaze from Connor towards Hank. “Wonder where he’s picking that up from.”

Hank shrugged, refusing to outwardly engage in the man’s games. “Can you or can you not?”

Once again, that insufferable smile, as his hand moved across the cat’s back. “It’s been a long time since I coded.” 

“Fine.” Hank shrugged, starting to roll the zip bag around the memory card with a nonchalant smile. “I’ll find a better programmer then, more experienced, more knowledgeable.” He nodded, “Thank you for your time Mister Kamski.”

It had been a risk, a whim, and it had paid off. Not all narcissists fell for such obvious strikes at their ego, but Kamski perhaps was getting tired of his own games. He steepled his fingers above the cat, which was still waiting with nose upwards and ears back for a pet that delayed to come.

Unmoving from his all too cliche pose, tapping his index fingers together, Kamski requested, “Chloe?”

She did not need further instructions it would appear, as she walked towards Hank and retrieved the bag from him. She walked through almost tangible silence, and reached her master, handing him the bag, stroking the cat once before assuming a waiting position next to the armchair, hands behind her back.

Kamski unrolled the bag, holding the card delicately with two fingers and bringing it to eye level. He inspected it attentively. Flashing his fake smile, gaze traveling to meet Hank’s once more, he offered, “Very well, Lieutenant.” He pushed himself up, the cat fluidly leaping off his lap as he did so. It walked away indifferently, jumping up on the nearest surface and turning around in a circle, looking for a good place to sit. No, not looking… Calculating, Hank corrected himself once he had noticed the small blue LED circle on its temple.

“Let’s go downstairs then,” Kamski offered all too sugary, and the detective finally took his eyes off the now tranquil clockwork animal.

  
  


Kamski gave the computer an almost affectionate pat, gesturing towards it with the memory card. “One of the first machines I’ve ever developed for the android projects.” He raised the card in a ‘cheers’, before shoving it inside the machine. A click indicated it was in whatever slot it was meant to be, and Kamski pressed the power button before pacing a little further from the computer. “Android memory cards are still compatible with the ports in this, and then it’s just a matter of accessing them like you would a phone’s storage or what have you. It’s quite clunky to deal with now that I’m used to different machines, but the beauty of it all is that Connor should be able to easily connect with the VX’s memory storage through this much like he does with modern machines… And then just a matter of downloading what you’re looking for.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Hank stated, as if over half the conversation hadn’t been ass backwards nonsense to him. He looked towards Connor. “Would you?”

“Alright,” Connor nodded, walking towards the computer with his usual nonchalance. He readily raised a hand, repeating motions he was all too familiar with, as he retracted the artificial skin and touched the computer’s motherboard with his fingertips.

As if electrocuted by the brief contact, Connor threw his hand back as far as possible from the innocuous machine, stepping back, and freezing entirely, apart from his wildly flashing red LED.

As surprised as Hank had been by the unprecedented reaction, worse yet was the fact Kamski was equally puzzled. He shot a glance in the detective’s direction, before squinting at Connor. “What happened?”

Still stunned, expression frozen in one of sheer shock, Connor parted his lips slightly, yet no words came out. His entire set of movements was unnatural, even for him, and it took him a long moment before he shook his head. His eyes transfixed on the computer, his body now finally resumed voluntary movement… or perhaps in a sense involuntary, as he soon hunched, backing up further, his arms now crossed, cradling himself defensively.

Hank snapped his fingers in front of the android. “ _Connor_!”

His trance finally broken, Connor looked towards Kamski. “I can’t.”

In a stellar performance of condescending sympathy, Kamski addressed Connor once more. “It’s a simple program. You’ve used it before.”

Connor shook his head, leaning forward slightly, canting his head, speaking on an aggravated tone. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t do it.” His fingers grabbed onto his jacket as if seeking comfort.

“You can’t do it or you _won’t_ do it?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I want to know the reason a perfectly functional android refuses to interface through Amanda.”

Waltzing into the conversation through the convenient opening, Hank inquired, “Who the fuck is Amanda?”

Kamski turned around with his chair, looking at him. “Oh. One of the oldest and longest lasting CyberLife gimmicks. A pretty basic program, like, say... Siri.” God his gestures were annoying. “A two-way communication system with a simple graphic interface. She served as many things throughout the years. A way to test android compliancy in a controlled environment, a way to teach them of human mannerisms and body language, a tool for devs to leave notes for each other... Honestly, she was one of my favorite creations.”

Pausing for a breath, Kamski spun with the chair again, once more looking at Connor. “The most ambitious project involving Amanda has been the RK series.” He glanced towards Hank. “Most androids are designed as standalone entities, but the RK series shared a common memory and interface through Amanda and received their commands that way.”

“Like an insect colony and its hive queen.”

“Correct. That entire story is over, however, and this computer is a closed network, running an even more basic Amanda script. A simple program,” He stated with a head tilt, narrowing his eyes, carefully probing for Connor’s reaction.

The android hesitantly offered with unease obvious over his entire being. “Amanda used to-”

“ _CyberLife_ used to give you orders, through the program. Amanda is only a tool. You know that. Just download your thing.” His tone had nearly degraded to baby talk, as if whatever turmoil Connor was going through could be fixed with a lollipop and a pat on the head.

“I… I can’t.” His tone had never been so anguished, and he shot a quick glance in Hank’s direction. Such a quiet, but such a tangible plea. “I don’t want to.” Hank’s patience had finally snapped. “Fucking fascinating. For the fucker who developed empathy for computers, you could look into developing some for yourself, too. Leave him be. I’m sure someone like you has some flash drive lying around or something.”

“Fine… Fine,” Kamski conceded with a twitch of his brow. He nodded in his assistant’s direction. “Chloe, could you please download the last memory entries?”

“Of course, Elijah,” she stated overly politely, placing her now exposed hand on the traditional computer.

“Connor can then just download them from Chloe,” he dismissively waved a hand, before shifting his gaze to Connor. “You can do that much, yes?”

Hesitantly, Connor nodded.

Uncomfortable silence followed.

Kamski slowly spun his office chair, eyeing Connor with irritating intensity. The android still stood in his assumed defensive stance, although judging by his LED, he at least was gradually managing to soothe himself. Not the same could be said for Hank, whose frustration only grew in the face of a challenge he could not see nor even quite understand.

The dysfunctional dynamic shifted as Chloe stepped away from the terminal and offered her hand to Connor.

He eyed it stiffly, hesitantly shifting his weight, reaching a hand out to hers while his other hand remained in its helplessly defensive position. His hand hesitantly hovered over Chloe’s outstretched palm, and he disabled the artificial skin.

And just as so, his delicate fingers began quivering, and he closed them in a fist as whatever progress he had achieved regarding his state of mind had collapsed upon itself.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” he stated in a sheepish tone, avoiding meeting the detective’s gaze.

Kamski stiffened in his chair, opening his mouth, but Hank cut him off aggressively, “It’s fine. Go out, get some air. Maybe it helps.”

Returning the artificial skin over his hand, and his hand in the cradle of his other arm, Connor simply nodded an acknowledgement and left the room. Uncharacteristic for him, an indication of the severity of it all. With a deep frown, Hank turned his gaze towards Elijah Kamski.

  


“Should I download the data to a USB drive, as the Lieutenant suggested?”

The two men had been caught in a primal staredown, like a couple of beasts, and Chloe’s speech had finally broken the spell. Kamski turned to look at her, nodding indifferently, and Hank allowed his clenched jaw muscles to loosen.

With Chloe turning towards the computer again, Kamski too turned back to face the detective. Unprompted, unquestioned, undesired, he stated, “I don’t like how he’s responding to it.”

“You don’t like… that he has a personality?”

“I don’t like that he has a freeze response.” Kamski leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his legs, fingers entwined. He shot Hank a glance surprisingly free of his usual arrogance. “I took anthropology early in college, fascinating subject, really. And very useful for trying to create machines that humans could accept.” He began spinning with the chair idly. “Fear is an entry level notion. A very useful evolutionary response. When something hurts, an animal or a human will become wary of it. Increasing and repetitive hurt results in an overactive stress response, eventually leading to the phenomenon known as learned helplessness. The irrational innate belief that-”

“I know what learned helplessness is. Thanks.”

Obviously displeased by the interruption, Kamski resumed his monologue. “I have programmed a response similar to fear in androids to facilitate a highly adaptive and reactive protocol. In order to properly adapt to the real world, machines needed to understand the consequences of actions and create an adequate response. Coincidentally, it ended up replicating nature’s fight, flight or freeze.” He absently took the drive from Chloe’s hand as she held it out. “Unlike nature’s design, however, I intended for the program to be able to constantly reassess the threat level of stimuli, and either discard the response or dispose of the threat in whatever means… avoidance, confrontation, whatever.” He waved a hand dismissively, fortunately brushing aside another long topic. He then reestablished eye contact. “Unfortunately, the script appears to be critically failing within Connor. He should have been able to accept the word of his creator and at the very least been willing to try.”

“Mh-hm.” Hank nodded. “Or perhaps you just dislike that he doesn’t perceive you as an infallible god figure.”

“Do you think this irrational response will serve him?”

“No. But I think that’s part of who he is.” He paused briefly before continuing, “You’ve created life, Mister Kamski. Life is inherently imperfect”

“Wouldn’t you like to write out the hicks in your personality if possible?”

“I’m not here to discuss philosophy.”

With a sideways nod and pursed lips, Elijah Kamski held the drive out towards the detective. “Here’s your witness testimony, then, Lieutenant.”

Condensed disdain manifested in a grimace as Hank took the drive from his hand. He lifted it, “Thank you for your help and cooperation.”

“My pleasure. Have a good day,” Kamski offered in a finely rehearsed PR voice.

“Yeah. You too,” Hank gestured with the drive, before shoving it in his pocket.


	20. Broken

“Hey… You okay?”

Connor was standing by the car, arms still crossed in front of his body, still a little hunched over. The wind blew wildly at his clothes, but it was probably the least of his issues. He was lost in whatever fucking world of his once again, and only stirred when Hank pressed a hand against his back.

“I’m… I’ll be fine. I’m sorry, Hank. I fucked up.”

Hank pulled the drive out, waving it in front of him. “You didn’t. We have what we came here for.”

“No, I- I know my response is irrational and I should not be exhibiting it.”

“Connor…”

He shook his head, grasping for words. “I dislike his games.”

Hank ran his hand up and down the android’s back. “I know. Me too.”

But was he any different? Were his bullshit courting games any less confusing to the clueless android, any less hurtful? 

“Come on, get in the car. It’s cold.”

Without a worded answer, Connor nodded and obliged.

  


The roads were empty. Because who the fuck would be out in this blizzard.

“You think you can read the drive at least?”

Connor shook his head pitifully. “I don’t want to. I know it’s illogical.”

Hank returned his full attention to driving, sighing. “So who do we ask?”

“We could ask Markus,” Connor shrugged, but there was an unease, an edge, to his gestures that had never tainted them before.

“May I ask something?”

“Yes.”

“How come you didn’t ask Markus for help with your issue?”

It had been the wrong question, painfully obviously. If solid mass could tense up, Connor had beautifully managed to do so. He shook his head helplessly, before briefly making eye contact. “I don’t want them to know I’m broken.”

There he went again with that word, and perhaps Hank was more aware than he’d liked as to how it all started, as to how the term entered the android’s system. And he was so fucking clueless as to how it could be removed.

“You’re not broken, Connor. You’re just…” He gestured with his right hand, as if the right words would come from thin air and he could just grasp them and throw them on a platter and serve them like some elegant dish. They may have not come that dramatically, but Hank did narrow his eyes as he turned to share his sudden revelation, “You’re ashamed of it, aren’t you?”

“I was not created to underperform.”

There was nothing he could say, nothing he could add, to remove the weight of that statement. That sort of statement haunted humans for life, what was there to say it wouldn’t bear the same weight for other forms of intelligence.

  


***

  


“How did you get this?”

The four androids were all uneasy being presented with what Hank assumed to be the equivalent of brain matter extracted onto a handy portable drive. He hadn’t even considered it. Handling android parts was to Connor what seeing broken bones was to him, background noise to their existence. And while the four had seen their share of dead androids, perhaps not everyone wanted to live their life being constantly reminded of what they were made of and how it could break at any given moment.

Connor offered, almost apologetically, “We had to retrieve a memory card when we could. We have nothing else to go off, and the body was stored in the morgue still.”

“It’s…”

“I know it’s wrong.” He continued, in a tone unbefitting the context, too matter of factly. “But legally, androids have no next of kin, and the humans did not want to contact you yet. They believed burning the bodies is in too bad taste. As is burial. So far, the bodies have just been sitting around in a spare room.”

Markus hesitated before shaking his head. “I never thought about…”

“I know. Me neither.”

Ah great. Now he’s here watching computers consider their mortality and burial rites. What a great day, what a great case.

Markus glanced back towards Connor, “You couldn’t read it?”

“I…”

“He needs a second opinion,” Hank offered diplomatically.

It was bullshit. He knew it was bullshit. The androids knew it was bullshit.

But Markus nodded and proceeded to do his robot magic to the drive.

While forensically fascinating, and an interesting mental exercise, extracting the memories of somebody who had once been alive must have certainly been something. But Markus did not show much discomfort, and upon being done, shared his findings.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“He saw nothing. He was deactivated suddenly, without anything or anyone in his line of sight.”

Hank shook his head, “Was too good to be true.”

In an uncanny replica of Connor’s gestures, Markus tilted his head and narrowed his eyes before speaking hesitantly, “There is a digital signature to the signal, however. I have successfully isolated it.”

“And that means?” Hank asked nonchalantly. He’d begun accepting his idiocy in all this... brave new world.

Connor turned his gaze towards him, “That means Elijah Kamski may know which CyberLife device it originated from if he has kept a database.”

“If Chloe has kept a database,” Hank offered, canting his head and raising his eyebrows.

Connor exhaled in pure humanlike amusement and looked downwards, a fledgling dumbass grin on his lips.

Brilliant time for him to be discovering that expression.

  
  


Hank shook the USB drive. “I’m gonna go back to Kamski’s place. You want to come or stay here?”

“I’ll stay here,” Connor said, offering a sheepish smile.

“It’s fine.” The man entered the car, shoving the key in the ignition. “You have fun, hm?” he smiled towards the android. “Don’t start another revolution.”

“There is always a statistical probability for that.”

“Mm,” Hank raised his brows and spun the key in the ignition, hoping that was one more of Connor’s awful attempts at humor, and not one of his literal statements. He glanced towards the android as he reversed the car. Connor appeared troubled, but nonetheless offered a lopsided smile before turning around and walking back into the mansion.

  


Hank pressed his lips together. The drive back was routine. His mind wandered. It wandered in disgustingly predictable patterns.

Connor… precious Connor…

How his chest tightened thinking of that dumbass…

His hands gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles whitening.

He had kept his distance, and he had kept his silence, and he had hoped that’d quell it. That he’d bury it like a cat burying its piss.

But it hadn’t worked.

  


And then there was the case.

The fucking brilliant case.

And its latest, thrilling development.

Unexpected, unprecedented, whole loads of motherfucking

  


Nothing.

  


He veered right. A detour wouldn’t matter, in the grand scheme of things.

Just one glass, and he’d be on his way.


	21. Desert Wolf

“Close your eyes.”

Connor frowned.

“It’s stupid. Rationally it cannot work.”

“It’s how Carl taught me.”

Connor approximated a 99.98% failure chance. He highly doubted blocking out visual input was the problem. His simulations could always run overlapping his visual feedback. His processor and software were designed as such. Why would closing his eyes matter.

He exhaled in annoyance.

He obeyed.

“Now, try to think of something you’ve never seen before.”

Black.

What was the use.

He was broken.

He shook his head.

“I can’t.”

“Focus on a thought. On a person. On an animal. How it makes you feel.”

Hank.

Hank made him feel…

He was grateful androids lacked the ability to blush.

It was not helping.

He could perfectly recall Hank from memory; he could perfectly visualize him three-dimensionally. But that was not what Markus wanted.

Everything he thought up already existed. He could visualize places. He could visualize objects. He could visualize beings. He could not merge them. He could not animate them.

Markus could paint - like Carl - like the humans. He could never understand this difference. He had altered his software in that sense. He would never accept that not every android was capable of it. He would probably argue even with Elijah Kamski over that topic.

Connor felt anger; but all he saw was still an endless dark.

He shook his head; he opened his eyes.

“I can’t do it, Markus. I can’t imagine something I haven’t seen.”

Markus pressed his lips together; he gave him a sympathetic-comforting pat on the shoulder. “Try with something you have seen. But in a new place.”

He closed his eyes again - tightly.

A desert. He had never been to a desert. Deserts looked soothing; but they would be terrible for his circuits.

He decided on a wolf. Humans called that ‘irony’.

Markus’ hand tightened its grip on his shoulder.

  
new simulation { }  
Set.environment  
>Load asset#24213285362  
>Load asset#214726152625  
>Load asset#11421314258  
Placing assets…..  
OK  
  
overclock [core#17] 160%  
overclock [core#18] 160%  
overclock [core#19] 160%  
overclock [core#20] 160%  
  
run simulation  
Loading…………….  
  
>Setting anchor points: wolf elbow 1; wolf elbow 2; wolf knee 1; wolf knee 2; wolf paw 1; wolf paw 2; wolf paw 3; wolf paw 4; wolf tail; wolf head  
>Load animation#55736251641942  
Overlaying…………...  
Success  
  
Syncing……  
  
ERR33;  
STOP 

  


The error; the twitch.

He shook his head; “I can’t.”

“Try again.”

He had tried. Repeatedly. For two weeks since he had discovered the shortcoming.

It was just not in his program.

Markus however was unrelenting in his grip and gaze.

Connor closed his eyes again.

  
new simulation { }  
Set.environment  
>Load asset#24213285362  
>Load asset#214726152625  
>Load asset#11421314258  
Placing assets…..  
OK  
run simulation  
Loading…………….  
  
>Setting anchor points: wolf elbow 1; wolf elbow 2; wolf knee 1; wolf knee 2; wolf paw 1; wolf paw 2; wolf paw 3; wolf paw 4; wolf tail; wolf head  
>Load animation#55736251641942  
Overlaying…………...  
Success  
  
Syncing……  
  
[!] [core#17] load 66%  
[!] [core#18] load 71%  
[!] [core#19] load 62%  
[!] [core#20] load 71%  
[!] [core#17] temp 83c  
[!] [core#18] temp 79c  
[!] [core#19] temp 81c  
[!] [core#20] temp 88c  
[!] memory load critical  
  
// **No**  
  
overclock [core#17] 240%  
overclock [core#18] 240%  
overclock [core#19] 240%  
overclock [core#20] 240%  
overclock [ramslot1] 200%  
overclock [ramslot2] 200%  
overclock [ramslot3] 200%  
overclock [ramslot4] 200%  
[!] SYSTEM INSTABILITY DETECTED  
[!] CPU LOAD CRITICAL  
[!] CPU TEMP CRITICAL  
2039/01/09 19:52:11:322 [FATAL S4STEM ERROR]  
2039/01/09 19:52:11:322 [PHYSICAL MEMORY DUMP]  
2039/01/09 19:52:11:322 [Network services disabled]  
2039/01/09 19:52:11:322 [biocompoخent#33534 offline]  
2039/01/09 19:52:11:322 [biocomponent#31325 offLine]  
2039/01/09 19:52:1H:322 [biocomponent#15232 offline]  
  


Success

Compiling..

  
203G/01/09 19:52:1Ӻ:322 [biocomponent#52742 offline]  
2039/01/0K 19:52:11:323 [biocomponent#11213 offline]  
2039/01/09 19:52:11:323 [biocomponent#62432 θffline]

Success

  
20B9/01/0M 19:52:11:3ω4 [biPcomponent#24241 offline]  
2039/01/09 19:5G:11:324 [ЯiocompDnent#42133 of͍̏Lli͕̒nę̎]

Running si消ulation

  
2039/01/09 19:5Ш:11:325 [biocoKponent#11212 oҪfline]  
2039/0P/09 19:52:1Ҍ:3Ә6 [biocomGonent#132π1 offlαѮe]  
2039/01/09 19:5F:11:327 [bio3ӁmponegL#31215 ohfline]

// The wolf 

  
2039/01/09 ξ9:52:11:3F7 [bioco0poعَرent#14242 of7line]  
203ب/0D/ㄠ9 19:У2:ӨF:3k7 [bpشِيَco4pone6t#11632 ofhliㄢe]  
20ψk/01/0H G9:52:11:3ك8 [bi4coβppnent#15827 oثfldne]  
2039/0Ы/09 19:ss:h经:da8 [bioBomGoneTt#21768 oGflinK]]͕͕͋͛

// It moved. 

  
2ӨӁ9/01/0字 19:52:1繁:32Ҩ [сYSтем офFLине]   



	22. Philosophy

“Why don’t you let me take a look at his software?”

Hank shook his head for the millionth time. “Why don’t you take a look at the fucking digital signature?”

Elijah Kamski, who had shockingly been caught in the hallway of his burrow during his yearly migration to the vast outdoors, was very much unfazed by normal human behavior such as engaging in orderly dialogue and pursuing a new topic.

“He is too jittery. Look at Chloe. She could destroy the entirety of Las Vegas at poker without breaking a sweat.”

“Thank you Elijah,” she nodded cordially.

_Like herding cats._

“The digital signature, mister Kamski.”

With a sigh, Kamski turned towards his right, holding up the flash drive. “Chloe?”

“Of course, Elijah.”

She took the drive, bare feet gracefully pacing back to her starting point by one of the doors. She slipped the cap of the drive off and touched the port with two now revealed fingers. Hank eyed her for just a moment longer before turning his attention to Kamski.

“You said androids cannot create art.”

He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows condescendingly. “I did. They cannot. A pity, too. I expected it to be easily doable especially with later generations of androids. After all, humans have done it for millennia, it is ingrained in our nature, the first intelligent apes painted and carved and weaved long before fire and society appeared as concepts. And it is theorized even some birds and-”

“What about Markus?”

Straightening his back, Kamski clicked his lips. His eyes scanned the floor, perhaps looking for his lost air of superiority. “Markus is a special case.”

“You were hoping he would develop an artistic sense. That’s why he ended up with Carl Manfred.”

Kamski tilted his head and shrugged nonchalantly, lazily closing his eyes. “It was a theory worth testing, and an unique set of circumstances. Most androids… Chloe?”

“Yes, Elijah?”

“Did you find anything about the signature?”

“It’s a dynamic protocol, it has been assigned to many devices over the years. Nothing of real use.”

“Nothing is ever simple, is it?” he spoke in a lower tone, as if mourning the existence of this imperfect world far beneath him. After a moment’s pause, he gestured a ‘c’mere’ towards Chloe.

She walked towards him gracefully, indifferently, and stopped next to him. He slid a hand around her waist and ( _a pang of… jealousy? desire? what the fuckery_ ) pointed towards the enormous painting of himself he had hung in the hallway. “What do you think of this?”

“It’s a good quality, well framed, appealingly contrasted photo of you.”

Kamski turned himself, and her, towards another painting, his hand lingering on her waist ( _maybe it was the fucking whiskey giving him that ache. had to be_ ). Hank turned to look at the large, animated silver digital painting of a… well it was either a flower or a vulva, but knowing Kamski that wasn’t really up for debate.

“What about this one?”

Chloe shrugged slightly. “It’s alright.”

Kamski let go of her waist and turned his gaze towards Hank. “See? They cannot understand art. They do not feel a strong response in any direction. Love, hate… It’s just another object to them.”

“In her defense, that’s an ugly ass painting.”

Kamski canted his head, unsubtly and exaggeratedly rolling his eyes as he sighed, “Well, you’re just a boomer.”

They both quietly glanced back towards the very classy painting.

Kamski gazed towards Hank again, tilting his head the opposite way. “It’s funny. Even so, I expected androids other than Markus to make the leap by now.”

“Really?” Hank lazily met his gaze. “Your fancy painter androids?”

There was a painfully long pause during which Kamski’s expression gradually changed from smug asshole to a thousand yard stare. Finally, he spoke, cryptically.

“Connor.”


	23. Who's the Dumbest of 'em all

  
2039/01/09 20:03:27:711 [BOOT SUCCESSFUL]  
2039/01/09 20:03:27:711 [SYSTEM OK]  
2039/01/09 20:03:27:713 [Network services enabled]

  
RK800-313248317-55.NetworkServices.Connect  
(Android.PL600-501743923)  
  
RK800-313248317-55.NetworkServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.PL600-501743923, “ **Simon?** ”)

Simon@PL600-501743923:  
“ **I apologize for connecting.** ”  
Simon@PL600-501743923:  
“ **You crashed.** ”  
Simon@PL600-501743923:  
“ **I normalized your parameters for a safe reboot.”**

  


All systems were now online. His processors were no longer overclocked; his temperature was still above optimal but within safe levels. He moved his legs, disabling the automatic lock.

“Thank you, Simon;” he smiled cordially; Simon retrieved his hand from his wrist.

“I don’t understand;” Markus spoke. “We share a kernel - we share most of our software. Why can you not…”

“You’ve always been better at figuring our software out, haven’t you?”

Markus narrowed his eyes in surprise at the statement and tone - and Connor would have done the same. He sounded entirely too emotional - too human - like a child going off on his older brother.

“Connor, that’s… That’s not what I meant.”

Connor shook his head in frustration. “I know. I apologize.”

Markus leaned forward; he established eye contact; he placed his hand on Connor’s shoulder. “We will figure it out.”

Connor shook his head; “I’m sorry, Markus. I just don’t have the processing power.”

“We both know you have more than me.”

Connor sighed - a human sigh.  
// Hank would be so positively surprised.

He shook his head once more.

Markus once again gave him that comforting shoulder pat. Connor politely smiled at Markus; he looked towards Simon and smiled in gratitude as well; and to complete the cycle he threw North and Josh a smile too - they were both hanging out together further back.  
// I’m just broken.

  
  


~~~

Hank pulled out his phone, cursing at the buzzing.

  


_Could you pick me up at your earliest convenience?_

_Not urgent._

_Sure kid_

  


“I’m gonna have to end our thrilling interaction here.”

“Consider it.”

“I’m not gonna let you alter his personality just because you don’t like that he hasn’t lived up to whatever expectations you’ve set for him.”

Kamski tilted his head and gave a slight shrug. “Consider it behavioral therapy.”

“I’ll consider this conversation over. Have a good day, mister Kamski.” He turned to leave, and turned once more, offering a respectful nod and a much kinder, “Goodbye, Chloe. Thank you.”

She offered him a cordial nod. Could beat anyone at poker, indeed.

Couldn’t probably beat him at being a useless drunk, however. He still had that one mastered.

~~~

  
  


“You’ve been drinking.”

Hank sighed in annoyance. He nodded his head backwards; he slowly blinked. “I needed it. Get off my case.”

Connor had expected that he would enter the car and seek comfort. He needed comfort in that moment. Faced with his failures and shortcomings he did not need one more. He did not need to be shown his hesitance had pushed him to choose the wrong option.

He should have gone with Hank.

He had made no progress in his own mission; but he would have stopped Hank from drinking. 

He had analyzed wrong.

He had failed.

  
  


The drive had been quiet. It would have been irrational to attempt communication with Hank in the altered state. Connor had learned that much for certain.

Upon entering the house Hank had greeted Sumo - that was a good sign. His state of mind was not entirely altered.

Hank immediately went to the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of beer from the refrigerator - that one was a bad sign. However, arguing was unlikely to sway his mind - it never did - especially once he had already begun consuming alcohol.

“I’m gonna watch a game. You do whatever;” Hank spoke. He headed towards the living room couch.

Tone:amiable; “Alright, Lieutenant.”

He stood in the hallway.

Hank had been making steady progress towards reducing his alcohol intake. The period between November 30 and December 26 had shown an overall steady decline pattern - even accounting for the occasional severe relapse.

Now the pattern was increasing again. 

It had been increasing in direct relation to their increasing acts of casual affection and intimacy.

Connor clenched his fists.

Mathematically speaking, he was the direct cause for Hank’s relapse.

  
  


  
[quote=HankAnderson-1850906440065//390101224921] ' _It’s just a thing humans do, Connor. Helps us think, hearing our voice out loud._ '

Connor grabbed onto the edge of the bathroom sink and leaned forward.

His reflection looked back at him - indifferent. Only a reflection, nothing more.

“Why has his behavior changed?”

The reflection spoke the same; it looked the same. It was just a reflection. It could never offer intelligent insight.

“He’s distancing from me.” Connor spoke. “I don’t understand why.” He shook his head. Somehow, it had felt right. 

He scratched his fingertips at the sink as he gripped tighter. His voice cracked; “Where else am I failing? Am I failing with the case enough to cause this? Am I failing with social cues?”

He shook his head; he hunched over further; he gripped tighter. 

“Why does it _hurt_?”

Hurt was a human word. A word loaded with secondary meaning. Androids did not “hurt”; androids were incapable of pain - of feeling - but the distress he was experiencing; the strain upon his systems - ' _hurt_ ' had to be an accurate term to describe and quantify it.

His vision began blurring. Distressed, he ran a diagnostic scan.  
All systems functional. 

Then what was—

He wiped at his eyes; there was water on his hand. He analyzed it in confusion - as he did so he noticed a drop of water falling from his head’s general position into the sink. He glanced up at the mirror again - greeted with his face - except water was leaking from his—  
// _Crying is an involuntary process???_


	24. Uncertain (* pointless fluff)

The hollow sound of Connor’s bare footsteps on the floor echoed through the hall and stopped by the living room archway. Hank lowered his bottle, rubbing his temples in anticipation of whatever the fuck he was gonna bother him with.

“Hank, I- I—“

Lowering the bottle to the floor, Hank finally glanced over his shoulder. Only to be greeted by a Connor in a never before encountered stance. His LED, an almost constant red, the first detail to stand out in the dimly lit room. One of his hands held the other’s wrist, and both were raised defensively, pitifully, in front of his chest. His mouth still moved in silent I’s as he slightly shook his head, his cheeks wet with tears flowing from his pleading eyes.

“Connor! What’s wrong?”

To fuck with his own self pity. Hank rushed towards the android, grabbing him in a tight embrace, pulling him against his chest. “Did you hurt yourself?”

A head shake turned into a shrug was Connor’s response.

“What happened?”

Connor was stiff, apart from a very faint shake of his head. His hands gripped onto Hank’s shirt by now, but that was about as much as came out of the android in terms of communication. Perhaps he had hurt himself, or some software bug, or...

“Did you crash your voice module or whatever the fuck?”

Hank’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He struggled to reach for it without releasing the android from his arms. Awkwardly pulling the phone out, he checked the screen.

  


_Yes._

  


Hank gripped the phone firmly, embracing Connor with both arms again, pulling him as tightly against him as he could. 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he exhaled excruciatingly, hoping the harsh words could somehow beat down his own rushing feelings. “Do you wanna tell me what’s wrong? On my phone?”

  


_No._

_I will talk when my voice is working again._

  


“Yeah, alright.”

Hank held him tighter so. The android had stilled completely, no sobbing, no sniffling, not even breathing, nothing but dead weight of metal and plastic against him. The man awkwardly brushed his hand over the static-charged hair, not even certain if Connor was still aware of it, not even certain what the everloving fuck he was doing at that time. The alcohol only made it more surreal, like he was living some hard drug induced dream.

  


_May I deactivate here for 5 minutes?_

_To reboot?_

  


“Yeah. Yeah, go ahead, Connor.”

He continued to stroke the android’s hair absently for god knows how long. He well knew they had no subconscious, no way of telling he was still there.

But it barely mattered.

Connor remained in the same position, frozen, an immovable statue, hands still clinging onto Hank’s shirt, head still pressed firmly against his chest.

This was it, then. Life gave him one last chance to stay in his fucking lane, one last chance to stick to his self imposed celibacy, and he had failed it.

He was entirely too old, entirely too _old fashioned_ , and he had accepted it. He had lived with that acceptance for nearly a decade. So why, pray tell, did his rusty long forgotten hormones decide to fuck him over one more time?

  


The android finally stirred, pushing away slightly. He looked up at Hank. His large eyes were still resembling that of a doe in headlights. Whatever had happened to him must’ve really fucked him up.

Well, it was entirely too late to give a fuck anymore about saving face.

Hank ran his fingers through the loose lock of Connor’s hair, pushing it back against the others. Predictably, it didn’t stay, and immediately resumed its designer calculated position.

He had to stop himself from leaning in for a kiss. Not the fucking place nor time for that. It would be unfair, uncalled for.

“What happened to you?”

“I-” He shook his head helplessly, and for a brief moment, Hank thought he’d managed to crash again. “It’s a long explanation.”

Hank gestured towards the couch behind them. “I have nothing but time.”

  


It was uncanny how quickly Connor had transitioned between emotions. He sat cross-legged on the couch, his hands holding his ankles, and he spoke neutrally, as if he was presenting a thesis, and not coming out of the robot version of a panic attack. “I don’t like that I’m stuck on the simulations. I’m stuck on the case. Additionally, I’m always one step too far from other androids. I cannot ask for help, not considering what I’ve done. And at the same time I’m the only one who can solve this, who can help, I…” 

Ah, the feelings returned, and seemingly caught him off-guard too. His endearing dumbass expression returned, multiplied, and water pooled at the corners of his eyes, reaching critical mass and slowly flowing down his cheeks.

He wiped his cheeks with a sleeve, turning his head towards Hank. “And I don’t understand the irrational reactions I have regarding you. It hurts to be in the same room as you, it hurts to be away from you, it only ever subsides when we have physical contact and I don’t understand why I feel this way I’ve analyzed my code repeatedly you have been by my side throughout all this and I know we are friends but I am also developing some other kind of attachment to you and I have not yet decided what it is even though I know what it is on an intellectual sense I am not entirely unaware I just have not experienced this before at all and I don’t know where to even start or where to even look for advice and the worst part is I know why I ended up here I know I set my affection algorithm to constantly run in the background and increase based on certain factors and I guess I didn’t realize it would eventually increase so exponentially it would create this irrational reaction in me I-”

“Hey, shh.” 

Jesus Christ, his head was hurting, and he was entirely too drunk to follow what the android was going off about now. 

But he did what he knew, as a human, as an idiot, and took one of Connor’s hands in his own, rubbing his thumb over it, while he draped his other arm around the android’s shoulders, pulling him against his body. Waiting for Connor to calm himself down a little. Perhaps reword in a way more suitable for the peasants, perhaps drop it entirely.

His eyes had fixated on Connor’s face for who knows how long, studying his features with the honesty of a drunk man. His arched brow, his all too perfectly sculpted cheekbones, his stupidly cute nose, his lips... Hank’s chest ached with every second spent there, his muscles burned to propel him forward. He licked his own parched lips as if it would distract him from the building desire.

And what was worse was that those hazel eyes had returned the gaze throughout. And it had been Connor who caved in first, awkwardly, moving his head closer, his eyes fixed on Hank’s.

It had been all his own body had desired, and he, too, reduced the distance between them, hesitantly.

And stopped.

“Not like this,” he whispered. “Not when I’m out of it. Not when you’ve been in the middle of an existential crisis.”

Connor stood unmoving, impassable, before adding on his most matter of fact voice possible, nodding firmly. “If you wait for a time without either one, it’s never going to happen.”

Hank couldn’t keep his smile back. He exhaled, squeezing Connor’s hand tighter, then straightening his back. “I’m not avoiding it,” he spoke, as if he was certain of his words.

“I know when two humans or two androids feel this way, they pursue a more intimate relationship. But…”

Yeah. Same bump Hank had encountered in his own thought processes. Birds and the bees was cool and all until you hit the cruel hard reality of how the fuck would it work when the birds were made of plastic and circuits and the bees were drunken fruit flies. Sure, androids were nothing but fancy sex dolls to some, but... that wasn't quite it. “Well… I know what you mean.”

“Would you want to attempt it?”

The question had slapped him in the face with the subtlety and force of a truck. It was all fun and games until his attraction was summoned into reality, as a concrete concept.

“I don’t know, Connor. I wouldn’t even know how to go about it. You guys do that... thing,” he raised his hand and wiggled his fingers, “the hand thing.” He lowered his hand, once more resting it atop Connor’s. “Humans… we’re disgusting.”

Connor cocked his head. “You mean sex.”

“Mm,” he nodded absently. “I mean sex.”

For someone who’d been crying ten minutes ago over not understanding attraction, he sure as fuck was all too smooth and casual bringing that topic up.

There was a moment of silence. Connor probed, uncertain, unsteady, “And would you want it? Even if our species are not entirely compatible.”

“I don’t know, Connor… You’re…” Hank’s arm still held him around the shoulders firmly, and he looked at Connor with obvious affection, way too late ( _and way too drunk_ ) to bury it anymore. “You’re too perfect, you know that?”

“You have told me that before.”

Hank exhaled in dry amusement, and slowly nodded. “Sorry about that night.”

“So you _do_ remember.”

“Mmm.”

“May I ask a question?”

“Mhm.”

“Are your developing feelings for me the reason you have begun drinking more and more again?”

“Connor…” He sighed, and with a heavy pat on the one shoulder, retrieved his hand. His eyes were fixed on the floor. “Affection shouldn’t be something shameful. I love you as a friend, as family. I just… I...”

When the silence had become awkward even for him, Connor finally broke it, “What did you want to say with ‘were I 20 years younger’?”

Hank shook his head dejectedly. “It’s just the terrible flirting of an old jackass. Don’t mind it.”

“So you _are_ interested.” And the way he had said it, the way he had probed, his head tilted way too much into Hank’s personal space, his brows raising just a little too much, it made Hank respond with a disheartened snort. The android appeared to be taking that as personal criticism, as he straightened his back a little, “I apologize, I am still not familiar reading the bigger subtleties of human communication, especially when they come from you.”

Judging by his dumbass face, the talk wasn’t over. He still had thought processes going, he still had things he’d ask.

And indeed, once more getting a little too much into the man’s face, Connor interrogated, “Are you going to avoid this talk when fully sober, again?”

He had that uncanny way of telling things as they are, in a more direct and violent fashion than Hank was comfortable facing the issues he’d long buried.

“Connor, I…”

Words choked in his throat, and he aggressively launched forward and pressed his closed lips against Connor’s forehead, painfully hard, as if the cool, solid surface could ground his now rampant feelings. But it did little in that sense, it did little to stop his now quivering lip, it did little to ease the pain in his chest. He shut his now stinging eyes tightly, and that did little, too.

Perhaps it wasn’t the android that needed time, that needed space, reassurance... that needed to think things through to infinity.

Perhaps it was him.

For what was the human’s imperfect, uncertain, unstable nature when compared to the machine’s ever learning, ever adjusting, ever adapting protocols?


	25. Uncanny

His consciousness tuned in to the feeling of being watched. A high probability in this damned house, with the dog and the android considered.

He lazily opened one eye.

“Fuck off,” he muttered, closing his eye again, not holding back a smile.

“I made you breakfast,” Connor stated in his usual blank tone, his face yet again awkwardly close and inhumanly fixated on Hank’s.

“Thanks. Stop doing that shit. You’re not my servant.”

“I wanted to, it will help with your impending feeling of malaise.”

He smiled wider. “You fucking know everything, don’t you, Connor?”

“What I lack knowledge of I can research within less than 700 milliseconds under normal circumstances,” the android offered in his usual factual tone. “My longest research and compilation has taken twelve point four seconds.”

It had taken less than twelve point four seconds for Connor to get that phrase out, and even less so for Hank’s chest to stupidly and physically ache with condensed affection. He’d just pretend it was mostly the hangover. Always there to save his ass, what a convenient excuse.

As per usual, his silence meant jack shit to the android, who proceeded to utterly and mercilessly annihilate it, “I hope that you will have a pleasant day apart from the incoming headache and nausea.”

“ _You’re_ giving me a headache now, jackass.”

“I apologize,” he offered, blankly and one hundred fucking percent non-apologetically.

Hank rubbed the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to motivate himself to get up, but that wasn’t going particularly well. He’d just open an eye once more. That always worked. “How are you? Done with those fucking feelings?”

“Oh, not at all,” Connor straightened his back and finally granted him some personal space. He crossed his arms behind his back, his gaze absently wandering to the window. “I am still very much undergoing a severe emotional crisis, but I have successfully contained it to my secondary processors. It will continue as a background constant until it either gets resolved or critically expands once more. In the unfortunate event of another spillover I may show temporary physical distress once again.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hank groaned, rolling onto his back, an arm over his eyes. “You’re really uncanny sometimes, you know that?”

“I am aware,” the android stated in his usual indifferent voice.

“Go ahead, do something else. I’m awake.”

“Alright.”

He heard Connor pace towards the door and close it behind him. He lowered his arm, staring at the ceiling. Bravely gathering all that aching pressure in his chest he muttered out a single, concentrated “Fuck.”

  
  


God, it smelled good, and looked even better.

It shouldn’t have, it had no right to. It was such a simple dish, a crispy golden rolled over cheese omelette with a side of sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, and one tiny fuck of a parsley? basil? spring tying it all together like some goddamn Michelin restaurant. Cutlery rested neatly within a rolled up napkin, and next to it, a glass of orange juice, a glass of ice water, and a pack of aspirin. Overkill, thy name is Connor.

Hank shook his head and exhaled in disbelief as he gently pulled the fork out of its cradle. It almost felt like some perversion, like he’d touched the offerings in some ancient temple. Awkwardly cutting through a corner of the omelette with the edge of the fork, he spoke loud enough for his voice to carry over to the living room, “My damn mother didn’t treat me like this.”

“It’s a simple task, albeit time consuming. It is my understanding most humans consider the entire process arduous and not worth performing outside of special occasions.” There he went again. Cracking the entire human condition. Bold words coming from the dumbass who’d crashed upon discovering feelings.

“You’re reading?” he asked, before biting down. Can’t get interrupted if you control the conversation.

“Yes,” Connor answered.

Well, so much for controlling the conversation and timing his eating. Out of fucks to give, he spoke with his mouth still full, “How’s your simulation thing going?”

“Not well. I have given up momentarily. Not even Markus knew what’s causing that specific error. He never encountered it.”

“Why don’t you ask Kamski?”

Silence.

And perhaps it didn’t need to be put into words. Imperfection, failure, loss of control, they were obviously painful to admit for the android. And Hank graced him with an escape.

“What are you reading?”

“‘Star crossed lovers find new purpose together’. I set it aside yesterday evening.”

“Huh. Didn’t even remember having that around. Some library somewhere must be missing it.”

“It has no sticker.”

“Well, neither do you and I should’ve still returned you to CyberLife.”

“You are unusually- oh. That was sarcasm.”

It sure fucking was, though the poor thing had been shot in cold blood and left mangled on the floor without even a wreath and a hail Mary.

“Did the book perhaps belong to your former wife?”

“Nah. She took all her things and half of mine and peaced out.”

“Human relationships are confusing.”

“Yeah, you tell me.” He finally decided to pop out two aspirins and wash them down with water. “Is that why you’re reading the book?”

“I was hoping for some insight, yes.”

“Let me know if you find any.”

He returned to his breakfast, and perhaps part of him was lamenting the same lack of answers. Why couldn’t it be easy? He’d been here before. He’d done this whole back and forth tango, the bad flirting, the accidental hand holds, the stolen kisses, and all he had to show for it was a two room house, a desolate existence, and shitty humor at the expense of the failed relationship. Anything his ex hadn’t taken from him, life took care of it, and he’d had enough. Learned helplessness, he mused dryly. Why do it again, why go through the pain. It just wasn’t worth it for the brief high of that initial phase.

But it would appear his discipline all but crumbled when faced with that fucking walking computer. Not even his fucking type, not physically, not in the least. Fucking around with androids was a popular past time he’d never personally understood.

But then those damned girls at the Eden club… Those two, they didn’t care where they came from, they didn’t care where they were headed, they had no idea what the next day, the next hour, would bring… and through it all, they had fought for each other, for their bond. It was pure, unconditional, strong…

And his damn mind had wandered deeper into the dark since, gotten lost into the damn maze, unearthing desires long buried, feelings long dead. He’d never been attracted to men, but he always had a weak ass spot for that crap… ‘unconditional love’, what a stupid ass fucking thing to dream about, to hope for. Who the fuck could, would, love another being so pathetically, so pointlessly, and be loved back with the same unadulterated dedication? That shit didn’t even exist in fiction.

But those two damned girls… the whole damn android species was capable of it. Capable of readily, selflessly, hopelessly, sacrificing their comfort, their lives, for something or someone they believed in. Few humans were capable of it, but he’d never been lucky enough to be the object of desire for any of them. And he couldn’t pity himself nor trash talk them without admitting he, too, wouldn’t take such a huge leap of faith as to surrender his entire being to somebody else…

Well…

Now he fucking could… 

Connor had fought for his safety without anything to gain, and he’d willingly, ferociously return that dedication.

He glanced into the depths of his glass of water, wishing to all hell it had been whiskey. And Connor had been right in that assessment, too. Fucker was always right. Alcohol did dull the growing, echoing ache within him, an ache he could no longer understand wholly, where it came from, where it was headed. How far would its current take him. 

“You know, I’ve had this before, but it wasn’t so fucking bad.”

“A hangover?”

That didn’t help.

“Yeah. Sure, Connor.”

His phone buzzed, and for once, he was grateful.

“Anderson.”

“ _New dead android for you. Two of them. Sainte Anne’s._ ”

‘Grateful’ had been a really fucking awful word of choice.


	26. Pieta (6th case)

  
2039/01/09 14:13:53:723  
Logging caseID #4535-10/01/2039  
LOC: 1150 Ste Anne St / 2668 Howard St [42.3210147,-83.0768879];  
VICTIMID: AP700-612743814; YK400-413613843;  
COD: undetermined; undetermined;  
NOTES: { Placed on footsteps of left entrance of church, AP700 android is posed cradling the YK400 android, AP700 dressed in a 40% silk 60% cotton long gown + 100% silk shawl as a headdress + braided hair with raven(corvus corax) feathers tied in; YK400 dressed in a tan 100% cotton blouse in adult size + black 100% cotton jeans; stab injuries to the YK400’s hands - not mortal; memory cards removed; };  
End;  
Saving………...  
Success 

  
  


Connor slightly turned his head to the left; his eyes still focused on the bodies. He asked loudly over his shoulder.

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah… Yeah, just need a minute.”

Connor turned further; he glanced over his shoulder.

Hank was standing - back towards the victims, slightly hunched, left hand on his hip, right arm raised; the lower part of his face buried in the elbow joint.

Six minutes thirteen seconds ago he had interrupted his inspection of the bodies with a ‘Jesus Christ’ and stepped away. He had been maintaining distance since.

Connor analyzed the scene. 

Empathy - complex empathy - truly putting himself in someone else’s mental state - still eluded him. He could understand Hank was distressed because of the scene; he could approximate a 89% chance it had to do with the child android relating to Cole Anderson; there was a margin of error where it could be explained with impersonal human empathy; he also knew it was a bad idea to ask Hank for clarification. Unfortunately, the actual feelings and distress Hank was experiencing were too alien for him to yet understand.

However, he did - _feel_ \- something regarding it. Similar to watching Hank deliver substandard performance compared to his potential; similar to having watched Chloe and other androids im extreme distress; similar to watching Sumo lay his head on the couch and whine when not allowed on it.  
// _Sympathy?_  
// Perhaps?  
// There’s so many similar terms.  
// Empathy.  
// Sympathy.  
// Apathy.  
// Apathy is easy.  
// But what about the others?  
// Most humans so readily tell them apart.

Hank removed his arm from face level; he awkwardly gestured towards officer Miller; “Chris, we’re getting a crowd again. Disperse them.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

‘Crowd’ was an overstatement - perhaps intended as dramatic or metaphoric - for the four people that had gathered in the small plaza on the other side of the police tape.

Connor stood up; he walked closer to Hank.

Now that his attention had been drawn to the ‘crowd’ he opted to scan them. He immediately acknowledged his error of not having done so prior. He added a new line to his programming - immediately and continuously scan the humans and androids in vicinity of crime scenes. Assigned to secondary functions.

“Lieutenant?”

“Mm?”

“I have a match. In the ‘crowd’. One of the people behind the lines has also been at the scene in Riverside Park. His father worked for CyberLife. He has attended programming courses in college. He has no record.”

Hank exhaled. “You logged his name, right?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. Shane Hathale. 24.”

He turned his head to look towards Connor. He gave a shrug with a shoulder and a hand. “Once is chance, two is coincidence. Could’ve just been passing through both times.” He paused a moment; “But three is a pattern. If you see him again that’s that.”

They both watched the uniformed officers corral the ‘crowd’ away.

Once that was completed Connor returned his attention to the scene.

“Can you find anything?”

“Same as so far. Memory cards removed, no relevant prints. This particular scene has nothing relevant at all. We know they have been placed here overnight and we know the altar boy that came to unlock the doors and ready the church found them. There is nothing else out of place nor anything I could catalogue as significant. The killer or killers are improving and adapting as they go.”

Hank nodded absently; he finally turned and paced back towards the victims; he crouched down next to them.

Connor focused on the Lieutenant’s face; he probed cautiously; “There is one thing I do not understand.”

“Hm?”

“The wounds to the YK400’s hands are not large enough to have caused mortal damage. They are most likely inflicted posthumously.”

Hank nodded his head towards the bodies; “Jesus and Mary.”  
Processing..

“Hence the church chosen deliberately for a location.”

“Mm.”

Silence.

“This crime scene really affected you emotionally.”

“Connor, please;” Hank raised a hand to request a ‘stop’; “Not now.”

Connor silenced himself.

He inspected the scene once more; he noticed nothing he had not catalogued already.

“Those feathers in her hair… raven?”

“Correct.”

Silence. 88 seconds.

“You were right. They’re related;” Hank stood up again.

Connor looked over his shoulder; he inquired; “Why did you initially dismiss the theory?”

Hank shook his head; “People like this, they usually have a very specific way of leaving a signature, so that nobody else takes credit instead. It wouldn’t be just raven themed objects, it would be the same model.” He absently yet angrily kicked a pebble; he paused twenty two seconds; “Well, not always. I wanted it to be easy I guess. Suppose you can’t relate. You enjoy thinking.”

Silence. Hank glanced at the dead androids once more; he shook his head and faced away again.

“It… could be an android;” Connor looked up towards Hank.

Hank turned around to return the look; “How so?”

“You said the pattern does not fit most human thrill killers. If you recall what Elijah Kamski said, androids copy human behaviours where they lack real imagination. It could be an android misinterpreting how human serial killers employ their signature.”

Hank required 21 seconds to process the information. He dismissively shook his head; “And how many killer androids are there, Connor?”

“There is me.”

Hank snorted; he crossed his arms; he shook his head; he turned around.

Connor continued; “There are also the remaining Connors. I am not certain what happened to them, whether they have been activated or remained dormant after the revolution. And that is not including any other android. Most would be capable of murder if the correct sequences are triggered.”

Hank appeared to entertain those possibilities for another thirty seconds; he pressed his lips together; he shook his head once more; he turned towards the victims; he quietly eyed them for nineteen seconds.

“What about the first case, Lieutenant?”

“What about it?”

“There were no visible ravens there.”

Hank shrugged; “Support beams had some bird sculptures on them. Could well have been ravens or similar. It’s not like this fucker is using flawless realistic ravens exclusively.”

Topic concluded.

  
Load caseID #4131-2038/12/19  
addto>NOTES [possible depiction of raven(corvus corax) upon ornamental support beams;]  
Saving……..  
Success  


  


Connor probingly started a new topic; “It could be an android trying to replicate human behaviors, you said so yourself during the first case.”

“Connor, that was tongue in cheek.”

“It may have been, but perhaps you were correct.”

“Well, whatever the fuck it is, it clearly wants to play, hm?”

Brief eye contact was established; Connor cautiously nodded.

Hank’s features shifted to a displeased scowl.

“Fine. I’ll play.”


	27. Ready Player One

“Jesus, Hank, this is a shitty idea.”

It really was. No fucking joke.

Yet he gave too few fucks over Fowler’s opinion.

“Listen, Jeffrey, if it’s one of those fuckers that like to play games-”

“You don’t know that.”

“There isn’t really another explanation.”

Jeffrey shook his head. “You used to be good at these, now you’re grasping at straws like some blind fool.”

“Fuck’s sake, I’m doing what I can with what I’ve got. If it walks like a fucking duck and if it quacks like a fucking duck, it’s a fucking duck.”

“What does your android think of the situation?”

They both turned their heads to look at Connor.

Stiff as ever, nondescript as ever, wearing an impeccable full suit for the occasion, arms politely crossed behind his back, the android was standing a little way back. He tilted his head, eyeing Hank, obviously opting not to answer for himself, a once in a lifetime occurrence.

Hank turned in his chair again, facing Jeffrey, “He thought they’re related for a long time now.”

“Jesus, Hank, you hated these fucks for years now you’re here letting one drive the investigation for you.”

“The Lieutenant has been aggressively ignoring my feedback and suggestions throughout the investigation and has independently reached the same conclusion as me, I can assure you,” Connor spoke monotonously.

It would appear the android’s speech and gestures were mildly inconveniencing anyone and everyone that came in contact, judging by Jeffrey’s expression, at any rate.

“Fine. Fine… Let’s say they’re related. What the fuck did you plan to do tipping off the fucking press?”

Hank shrugged slightly, “Play his game. Acknowledge him. Congratulate him. You know these types. They love to be acknowledged and played with, then they slip up. It’s how they caught those they did catch.”

“You’re telling me you think this is another fucking Zodiac or what?”

“Maybe. It’s the best idea I have.”

“This is a shit idea. You can still change your mind.”

“Press is here already.”

“You look like a fucking hobo, let me take this, then.”

“What if I fixed his look?”

Hank glanced towards Connor with an expression and air about it which was only outdone by Jeffrey’s expression as he pointed his finger in the android’s direction. “Don’t you fuckin’ enable him.”

“It wouldn’t take long.”

“Yeah. Besides, I already prepared my vows and all, Chief,” Hank offered with a lopsided smile, albeit his amusement came from the schadenfreude of watching Connor’s butt-ins not being directed at him for once.

“Fine. Whatever.” Jeffrey waved his hand dismissively.

“Lieutenant, if you would stand up, please,” Connor spoke flatly, walking towards the desk and picking up a rubber band from a little assorted pouch.

Amused and perhaps a little jealous at the android’s ability to still safely bury his midlife crisis, Hank obeyed, although he sure tried his darnedest to make it look like it was a hassle.

Connor wasted no time approaching him and beginning whatever he had so carefully planned. He combed his slender fingers through Hank’s hair, brushing it back into a tiny ponytail. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but could give him a new hairstyle, Hank mused. He could feel Jeffrey’s judging look on him ( _ain’t the human subconscious a grand invention?_ ) but he found himself not really caring what the act came across like. 

Having secured his hair with the looted rubber band, Connor took to fixing the collar of his shirt and brushing his hands over the shirt’s entire length. And Hank found himself shamelessly looking at the android’s face throughout. That perfectly neutral expression, marred ever so slightly by his tiny brow furrow.

As if it were a complete afterthought, Connor hastily and accurately undid his tie, throwing it around Hank’s head, slipping it under his collar.

“Well,” Hank closed his eyes, lazily turning his head towards Jeffrey before opening his eyes again and offering an amused smile. “What do you know. I haven’t worn a tie in over a decade. Ex would be jealous if she knew I’m getting all fancy for a serial killer.”

“If you’re lucky, she’ll see you on the news.”

“Yeah, and throw her wine glass at the screen.”

Having finished with his tie, running his hands down it once to tidy it up, Connor took a step back and gave him one head-to-toe glance. Or perhaps the correct term was scan. Whatever the technical name of the task completed, he offered a tentative albeit severely lobotomized smile.

Hank offered him a stunted smile of his own, before starting to head towards the door. “Well. Gonna go throw myself to the wolves.”

“For the sake of your career, I hope you’re right with this shit.”

“You haven’t thrown me out for worse.”

“I should throw you out for that.”

  
  


“We are here in front of downtown PD. The officer in charge of the ongoing investigations has agreed to answer a few questions. Lieutenant Anderson?”

He responded with a well practiced, well choreographed smile. Eat your heart out, Elijah Kamski.

“Good morning, miss.”

“Is it then true that you are now investigating dead androids as you would humans?”

It stung. No joke.

A month ago even he would’ve laughed and rolled his eyes at that idea.

But he’d seen them. He’d seen them learn, evolve, he’d seen them gradually become alive. Seen them fight for and demand to be treated as sentient, humanlike beings. Who was he to deny them that?

“That is correct.”

“Could you tell us more about the cases?”

She shoved the mic in his face. Keeping his PR arsenal of expressions, he answered, “There is little we know so far. We believe it is a band of killers, as no single individual could pull something like this off, and we have not found any solid proof to indicate it would indeed be a single individual.”

He changed his tone as if he was playing a sad violin tune for himself. “We have been scratching our heads for so long now, trying to figure anything else out, but the truth is, we currently have nothing concrete to go off of. If anybody has any information, we do urge you to come forward.”

A brief breathing pause, a fake slight smile, “We believe the murders are racially motivated, that is all I can tell you for certain.”

Little white lies, that’s how you tricked these guys. Refuse to believe anyone could do it, and whoever did do it would want their hard earned credit. Had a chance to escalate, had a chance to work, had a chance for nothing to happen.

Reading the future was impossible, but hopefully, this guy wasn’t on the clever end of the scale of thrill killers.

“Thus, we urge all androids to travel in groups as much as possible, for their own safety. If you are a currently isolated android, we encourage you to reach out to your community and seek help and companionship.

“Furthermore, since I can see the discomfort on the faces of people behind the reporter and no doubt, behind the screens, I will make this final official statement:

“The Detroit Police Department recognizes androids as full rights citizens, and any crimes against them will be punished according to the law. That is all.”

There were still questions. Of course there were more questions. But he’d done this rodeo before. Nothing this grand or significant, of course, but that barely changed the facts. He opted to ignore the following barrage and walked away so stiffly and indifferently he’d make Connor jealous.

  
  


Once again safe inside the PD, he immediately pulled the elastic out, ruffling his hair with a hand. He quickly headed back to the Chief’s office.

“Well, I’ve done that crap now, too,” he spoke, undoing the tie, pulling it off, while closing the glass door with one hand.

Jeffrey shook his head in complete disbelief. “You’ve lost it. And I let you.”

Hank shrugged, pulling the tie off completely. “There’s a clear pattern and a clear profile of the killer or killers,” he said, throwing the tie around the neck of a very stiff and very immobile Connor. He began working on the knot. “Our guy has to be lacking in empathy, proud, perhaps a narcissist or a sociopath.”

He’d generously overassessed his own skill and majestically failed at fixing the fucking tie, but Connor immediately and quite literally took it into his own hands, finishing the knot quicker than Hank had even managed to put it around him in the first place.

Turning towards his de facto superior, Hank continued, “He has to be intelligent and with plenty of knowledge of androids. Somebody prone to get bored and play games.”

He turned towards Connor again and brushed his hand over the android’s chest, smoothing out the wrinkles in his tie and his impeccable dress shirt. “Come on, we’re paying an old friend a visit.”


	28. Player Three has entered the chat

**  
2039/01/10 18:42:13:252  
Connecting..  
Authenticating….**  


RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.RequestAccess  
(Chloe);  


Chloe.RemoteServices.RequestAccess  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55);

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.AllowAccess  
(Chloe);  


Chloe.RemoteServices.AllowAccess  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55);

  


**Handshaking…..**

  


Chloe.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55, FileType:PLM, FileSize:32b);

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
(Chloe, FileType:PLM, FileSize:32b);  


  


**  
t=7ms  
Success  
Connected**

  


root@Chloe:  
“ **Hello, Connor.** ”  
root@Chloe:  
“ **I will let Elijah know you’re here.** ”

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Chloe, “ **Thank you.** ”);  


root@Chloe:  
“ **Please don’t enter by yourselves.** ”  
root@Chloe:  
“ **He is very particular.** ”

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Chloe, “ **Understood.** ”);  


  
// Humans smalltalk while waiting.

“When androids connect, we test and calibrate the connection with a small data package.”

“Myeah?” Hank turned his head from the mansion’s door towards him - his interest appeared low - to be expected with smalltalk.

Connor nodded; “For a long time it used to be randomly accessed data.” He paused to look for the suitable human terminology; “Nonsense. Now, each android customizes theirs;” he displayed a smile; “Chloe sent me tactile information about cats. They are very soft.”

“That’s sweet;” Hank plainly spoke; he raised his eyebrows; “What’s your… data pack thing?”

“I set it to randomly extract from my involuntary responses towards your presence. It feels pleasant on a -- “  
// Mental?  
// Mathematical?  
// Intellectual?

“Sentimental level?”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Hank’s heartbeat had quickened to 93 beats per minute; “Why didn’t you do what Chloe did? Pick from your memories of Sumo?”

“I like Sumo. But I like you more.”

Hank’s heartbeat quickened further to 121 beats per minute; he was becoming visibly flustered. 

“I can assure you it contains no personally identifiable information or specific memories of you as an entity. Just my own —“

He stopped to search for the correct term; “Sentiments.”

The door opened; Chloe eyed them both without a word; none was needed.

  
  


~~~

“Before we begin, Mister Kamski, I would like to request the memory drive of the VX500 android.”

And was Hank ever grateful that this time around he was not the only one out of the loop. Kamski had responded to the request with a rare look of confusion, further enhanced by his loose, disheveled hair.

His concerns were rather quickly addressed by Connor, “Markus believes they can rebuild him a body and reactivate him. He has asked me to parley the request.”

There was a part of Hank that was convinced there was nothing on this planet that could surprise God Himself, but this demand appeared to have done the trick. The younger man looked in his direction, as if searching for an answer. But Hank had none to give. Connor had at no point informed him of this decision. And oddly enough, it stung.

It stung his human, primitive, pride. He knew it to be irrational. Connor didn’t need to report every fucking thing to him... Connor hadn’t reported every fucking thing to him even when he was programmed to do so, and back then he had come to like the robot’s budding independence. And now, his ape brain could only stubbornly cling onto the crooked, rotting tree of issues left from past relationships.

He shook his head, dismissing the thoughts in annoyance.

People were allowed to keep their secrets.

It meant nothing.

Not to him.

It did mean a lot to Kamski, judging by his delayed reaction. He turned towards Connor once more, eyeing him intently. He opened his mouth, but words refused to come as he had planned them. He exhaled, he half smiled, he attempted again.

“ _Fascinating_.”

He turned his head back towards Hank, shaking it slowly. “They’ve created their own medical field and everything. In such a short time. And with no aid from us.” He shook his head once more, glancing towards Connor, “Of course.” He rather predictably gestured towards “Chloe?”

She nodded politely towards Connor, “I will go bring you the memory card. Please, make yourselves at home until then,” she gestured towards the array of couches and armchairs.

Of course, Hank had passed onto the offer. Seemingly, so had Connor, as he continued to stand just as stiffly, hands entwined behind the small of his back.

Chloe’s departure failed to do much to change Kamski’s demeanor. He still eyed Connor with … _fascination_ ( _fuck’s sake_ ). He turned his glance towards the detective once more.

“Don’t you think it’s amazing, Officer? Rebuilding a broken body and continuing existing like nothing happened… Wouldn’t it be grand if humans could, too?”

His heart skipped a beat. As far as he was concerned, it could’ve continued skipping all of them. That ability, however...

“Fascinating indeed.”

~~~

  
  


A small black dresser stood against one wall - it had caught Connor’s attention - there was a small framed photograph on its top. He walked towards it - leaving Hank standing next to Elijah Kamski[seated].

Hank addressed the other human; “Do wolves hold any significance to you, Mister Kamski?”

A pause as he processed the request; “We tamed them and selectively bred them until we had looks and behaviors that were desirable?;” Elijah Kamski momentarily paused; he drank from his glass; “I much prefer felines. They maintained a higher degree of independence and flexibility. Nothing attractive about an animal that requires the aid of others in order to survive.”

Connor was paying minimal active attention to the conversation; while it was interesting it appeared very much routine. He was more focused on the photograph - another depiction of Elijah Kamski and Amanda Stern - the presence of two such photographs inside the house indicated a closer bond than Connor had previously estimated. Connor picked the photograph up with his empty hand - his other was holding the wrapped up memory drive. He turned the photograph around. There was a date handwritten on the back - 19/04/2019.

The two humans continued their conversation.

“What about crows? Or ravens?”

“Ah, corvids… They’re brilliant creatures. They pass mirror tests, they can solve complex puzzles, they use tools, they communicate their knowledge to other corvids, they cooperate and function as a society.” Elijah’s gaze drifted to the side. “You know, back when CyberLife was a startup no-name company, we had the server room in this one warehouse… There was a raven nest by a security camera, the whole team loved them. We used to leave boiled eggs and ham on the windowsill for them to pick up.”

Hank raised his head; he turned towards Connor. Connor slowly lowered the framed photograph back on to the dresser while returning the gaze. 

The conversation wasn’t routine - it was a veiled interrogation.

Hank turned his head towards Elijah Kamski once more; he crossed his arms; he continued speaking on a neutral tone.

“It’s funny. You’ve been giving indirect answers to everything we’ve ever discussed, and now here you are letting loose on the topic of animals, of all things.”

Elijah Kamski nonchalantly shrugged; “I find them rather interesting.”

“But you don’t find people dying interesting. That’s just daily life for you.”

“We live in Detroit. You tell me how common death is here, Officer.”

“Well. I’m not particularly fond of your games;” Hank began pacing in front of the armchair Elijah Kamski was seated in; his voice increased in tone and volume; “I think there’s quite a bit you’re holding back this time around as well. And I think you, too, are getting tired of your games. Getting lost in them. Maybe wanting to get them over and done with.”

Elijah Kamski sat back in his armchair; “Ah, yes, the bad cop routine. Could I sign a waiver or something to bypass it?”

Hank silently continued pacing for twenty one seconds.

“Where were you on, say, New Year’s morning?”

Elijah Kamski lowered his head; he looked upwards; his tone was of disbelief; “You’re joking.” His lips spread in a wide grin; he exhaled in amusement.

Hank slowly shrugged.

Elijah Kamski’s grin gradually faded; he turned to face Connor; he gravely spoke; “Tell me he’s joking.”

Connor could not give him his much desired answer; he glanced towards Hank for assistance - he had not even been informed Elijah Kamski was a suspect. His own calculations had classified the possibility as negligible. He did fit Hank’s estimated profile - but that is where the logical path ended.

Elijah Kamski leaned back in the chair; he turned his head back towards Hank; “I was at home;” Pause; “I am always at home. The outside world is an awful place to be.” He pointed an open palm towards Chloe; “You can ask Chloe, download her memory.”

  


  
Chloe.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55, FileType:KDP, FileID:”20381231/000000-235959”);

  
Purge temp();  
Extract 20381231/000000-235959.KDP  
Run track.geoloc  
Processing……….

  


“He’s telling the truth;” Connor stated.

Hank nodded firmly; his muscles tensed. He appeared… disappointed.

Elijah Kamski did begin speaking unprompted and more openly than before; “I am almost… I mean, you are the cop, of course;” he tilted his head in the opposite direction; he narrowed his eyes; “But why would I do it?”

“People like you, Mister Kamski, they get bored easily.”

Elijah Kamski exhaled with a smile; “I can’t deny that;” Pause; “But I am certain I can find other means of entertainment.” He gestured towards Chloe with an open palm. “Humans, we…;” he gestured in circles with his hand; “we have a drive to create. Painting, singing, sculpting… They say if you leave a human in a sandpit alone, he’ll make a sandcastle.”

Hank shifted his weight on his feet; he sighed; he said nothing and allowed Elijah Kamski to continue.

“I can’t do any of that, never had the inclinations;” he looked at the windows; “But I can program. That’s one way to create. I spent years working on the software and hardware of androids, improving them, furthering research, most of the time alone. I’ve poured all my knowledge into this project;” he tilted his head; he resumed eye contact with Hank; “Tell me, Lieutenant, why would I kill my own children?” Pause; he narrowed his eyes further; “What man would?”

Hank straightened his back; his vitals went into overdrive; his muscles tensed.  
// Keep it together, Hank.

Connor involuntarily frowned.

He had attempted to send a message to the human.

He had bypassed the hardwired fact that humans could only be contacted verbally. 

His voice - his actual voice - had simply -echoed- inside his-- [ _mind?_ ] - and the [desire?] to voice it kept running within his scripts after the occasion was gone.  
// Irrational.

  
  


~~~

Without a word, Hank pulled the tablet out of his jacket, slamming it on the table. “Ah, shit,” had been his only reaction as soon as the flimsy screen cracked, his open hand reaching awkwardly and stopping above the device.

Rather unimpressed, Kamski eyed the carnage. “Were you raised in a barn?”

“No. I was raised in the ‘90s.”

“My condolences.”

It had been deadpan, and the entire absurdity of it made Hank turn around in a futile attempt to hide his budding humor. “Just read the damn thing.”

There were several carefully chosen articles downloaded onto the tablet. His pièce de résistance. There were very few ways to bring a god down from the sky but heresy was one of them.

“ _In the wake of recent killings, we’re all wondering, is Elijah Kamski a joke?_ ”

Having read the headline out loud, Elijah Kamski flicked the article away with the side of his nail and an all too wide and dramatic gesture with his entire arm.

“ _The incompetent programmer that has unleashed a grand deal of problems on our society and way of life._ “

Same gesture, now aggravated. He looked like he was physically flicking a disgusting thing from his presence.

“ _Androids are murderers of people and businesses and now each other._ ”

He frowned as he more violently and less artistically flicked that article out of the way.

“ _Once voted ‘_ Man of the Century _’ now voted Fraud of the Millenium._ ”

The detective had seen it all in his career. People losing body parts, their careers, their loved ones, their lives. But even so, he was caught off-guard by the man before him and the pathetic look he had about him as he ever so slowly lowered the tablet to the table. He sighed, pressing his lips together, closing his eyes, tilting his head. Defeated… and by the look of it, the first time the young man had experienced that concept. Part of Hank had no sympathy to spare for a man that had it easy for all his life suddenly hitting his first real obstacle, one that money or intelligence couldn’t easily dismiss. The detective had grabbed god himself by his leg and pulled him from the heavens, and now watched him process his mortality. It was almost thrilling… Yet... a part of him, the still alive empathetic part of him, pitied the programmer.

The young man stood up and walked the length of the large windows. And suddenly, the great Elijah Kamski, man-fraud of the century, was little more than a caged tiger pathetically pacing the solitary enclosure of his own creation.

~~~

  
  


Thirteen times he had silently paced the length of the room with decreasing speed and resolve. He came to a halt next to a coffee table. He picked up his android cat from the table; he held it against his chest like he would a child - its front paws perched on his shoulder; it looked around the room.

“Chloe?”

“Yes, Elijah?”

He gestured with his empty hand in her direction; “Give Connor the CyberLife employee files.” His gestures hastened and now included his head; “Everything. Fingerprints, addresses, medical conditions, relatives, absolutely everything we’ve ever collected on them.” He returned his hand to the cat; he began petting it; “Wouldn’t want to waste police time.”

Chloe nodded with a slight bow; “Of course, Elijah.”

  


  
root@Chloe:  
“ **It’s a large file.** ”  
root@Chloe:  
“ **It would transfer quicker if we connect physically.** ”

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Chloe, “ **Understood.** ”);

  


He walked towards Chloe.

He retracted the artificial skin from his hand; he held it above Chloe’s.

  


  


**  
2039/01/10 18:57:22:313  
Connecting  
Authenticating..**

  
RK800-313248317-55.NetworkServices.RequestAccess  
(Chloe);  


Chloe.NetworkServices.RequestAccess  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55);

  
**2039/01/10 18:57:22:314 [Network failure]**

  


Connor reflexively narrowed his eyes; he withdrew his fingers.

Chloe slightly tilted her head - puzzlement.

Connor shook his head; “It’s nothing.”

  
// Perhaps Amanda still tainted Chloe -  
// Irrational.  
// This conclusion was not reached logically.  
// Chloe has indeed interacted with the program itself but not the same people giving me commands through it.  
// They’re different entities.  
// I -know- they’re different entities.  
// Amanda is different than Amanda[program]  
// They simply look the same.  
// Like all android models look the same.  
// Like all Chloes look the same.  
// Like I look the same as the other Connors.  
// Different entities.  
// Same appearance.  
// Harmless.

  


“Let’s try again. I apologize.”

Chloe held her hand out once more.

  


  


**  
2039/01/10 18:57:23:612  
Connecting  
Authenticating..**

  
RK800-313248317-55.NetworkServices.RequestAccess  
(Chloe);  


Chloe.NetworkServices.AllowAccess  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55);  
Chloe.NetworkServices.RequestAccess  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55);

  
RK800-313248317-55.NetworkServices.AllowAccess  
(Chloe);  


****

**  
Success  
Connected**

  


Chloe.NetworkServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55, FileType:XLS, FileID:”Cyberlife Employees”);  
Chloe.NetworkServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55, FileType:DOC, FileID:”f”);  
Chloe.NetworkServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55, FileType:KDP, FileID:”SM-NewMoon.pdf”);  
Chloe.NetworkServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55, FileType:KDP, FileID:”SM-Twilight.pdf”);

  
RK800-313248317-55.NetworkServices.Messaging.Send  
(Chloe, “ **The file formats and names are...** ”);  


root@Chloe:  
“ **For security.** ”

  
RK800-313248317-55.NetworkServices.Messaging.Send  
(Chloe, “ **Of course.** ”);  
RK800-313248317-55.NetworkServices.FileTransfer  
(Chloe, FileType:PLM, FileSize:32b);  


Chloe.NetworkServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55, FileType:PLM, FileSize:32b);

  


**  
2039/01/10 18:57:23:751  
End Connection ()**

  


Connor retrieved his hand and re-enabled the artificial skin; he turned to face Hank; “I have the files, Lieutenant.”

A nod of acknowledgement; he turned towards Elijah Kamski; “Thank you for your cooperation, Mister Kamski.”

Silence.

Their interaction appeared concluded.

Hank turned around; he headed towards the exit.

Connor joined him in his trajectory.

“Lieutenant?”

Hank stopped; he looked over his shoulder towards the other human to address his dialogue request; “What?”

Elijah Kamski took seventeen seconds to answer; “I want to know who is responsible.”


	29. Player Two has reconnected

“Why did you consider him a suspect?”

Hank halfheartedly shrugged; “Had to either confirm or rule out the obvious.”

“It could never have been him. There is a higher likelihood he would have sent Chloe in his stead.”

Hank quietly chuckled. 

“My statement has not been intended as humorous, Lieutenant.”

The statement had not helped any - Hank only increased in his amusement response.

Fortunate - his statement had indeed been intended as humorous.

  


***

  


“Thank you, Connor.”

Connor smiled amiably; he offered a nod.

Markus handed the drive to Simon.

The timing was bad but Connor had to address it; “I want to try again.”

Markus turned his head to look at Connor once more; “Connor, you’re…”

“I want to try again. I almost had it last time.”

Markus paused - lips slightly parted and head slightly tilted. Confusion.

“There’s a conflict somewhere. It worked right as I was shutting down last time. There has to be a biocomponent that’s causing the error, otherwise why would a simulation error cause a reaction in the hardware?”

North scoffed; “Yeah, just deactivate all your biocomponents. Sounds like a plan.”

He glanced in her direction; “Not all at once. Selectively. Eventually I will identify the conflicting components.”

Markus shook his head slowly - disbelief. “Connor, that’s suicide. You will cause irreparable damage to your systems.”

“By the time the damage is too severe, our people will own the old CyberLife factories, won’t they? I could just replace-”

“That’s not a guarantee. The humans are still reluctant-”

“I _have_ to do it. I _have_ to crack this case.”

Josh interrupted; “You don’t have to crack it this way.”

Connor turned his head in his direction; “What do you mean?”

“You do not need to visually reconstruct what happened. You can work off estimates and probabilities. Human investigators have done it for a long time.”

Connor shook his head; “Probabilities mean a chance of failure. I need to address that issue;” He turned his head towards Markus; “From a technical perspective, I should be able to. I do not understand why it’s failing.”

Markus maintained his silence.

Josh did not; “You could focus your resources in other places, instead. You said the human has helped with theories. If you focus on-”

“His theories may be incorrect and I have no way to verify and confirm.”

Markus narrowed his eyes; he tilted his head; he probed; “Why is this conflict there, Connor? Do you not trust the Lieutenant?”

Connor shook his head; “I do. I do trust him. But I shouldn’t depend on his input. I should be able to solve this entirely by myself. I was designed to.”

“He can offer angles we do not notice as easily, as he has already. Insight into human psyches, the art angle of the cases. Perhaps you should rely on his estimates about the simulations, too, whenever he offers them.”

“We were created to assist humans, not be assisted by them.”

“We were created to _replace_ humans. All of us. But you and I, the most.”

Connor quietly pondered the words.

“Perhaps there is more of your base programming left within you than you realize.”

Perhaps Markus was correct.

“You were able to take a blind leap of faith with us. Perhaps you can do the same with the Lieutenant.”

Perhaps.

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Phone#13135550133, “ **Are you currently busy?** ”);

  


“I could help you with your programming, if you wish. We could get rid of that sequence together. Free your mind further of its limitations;” Markus offered his hand in Connor’s direction.

Connor warily eyed it.

  
13135550133:  
“ **A little. Grab a cab. Give my card** ”

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Phone#13135550133, “ **Understood.** ”);  
  


  


Connor slowly shook his head.

If his old scripts were the issue then he could overcome that.

Alone.

As he was designed to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WNR patch 1.1.151a notes
> 
> Technical information:  
> \- Edited all dates past 31/12/2038 to no longer erroneously use 2040 as the year. I know counting is hard, but 2039 still exists, unless it will be as canceled as 2020  
> \- Changed a suspect's name as we randomly surname generated ourselves into using a popular youtuber as a suspect. I mean, with the drama around him it wasn't that far off... but it was also entirely unintended (plus the maths of his age would have been off, but we already established our maths crew is awful at their job)  
> \- [The Google Drive version has been brought up to date](https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1ISuAbk8QznbBUObxcrmhAzvo5yQMPnd1?usp=sharing)  
> \- We have edited the fic description. AO3 is not the correct place to unpack all of our self esteem and perfectionism issues and the wording that has been used makes the fic come off as waaaay worse than... uh.... well I've _seen_ things here.  
> \- Announced final number of chapters. Feels good to see the counter go up, and I am a fan of 'it's not the destination, it's the journey'. If I can watch a medical or cop show and know any development in the first two thirds is fake and still enjoy the show, I can maybe allow that luxury for this fic.  
> \- We have been notified of an issue where Connor crashes. We are still working on a fix
> 
> Additional information:  
> \- My work shifts have been weird and unstable lately and continue being so (12 hrish shifts on different hours, almost continuously). I've been slower to update and edit than the pace in the start and I have no idea what the case will be in the near or far future. Hope you guys are staying safe and healthy throughout this mess!  
> 


	30. *Leap of Faith (fluff you wouldn't show your boss)

Another car. He must’ve jumped at and cursed at every damn car that drove down the street for the past half hour. This one, however, stopped in front of the house, it had to be the right one… A theory confirmed by Sumo for once in his life perking up at an outside sound… Something about animals having a sixth sense? Whatever.

Moment of fucking truth.

With the same finesse of a teenager, he dropped the papers onto the couch next to him and rushed to the fridge like he’d just discovered the fountain of youth.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” he chanted cheerily, pulling onto the freezer door. “What are you, twelve?”

Sumo yawned loudly, shuffling to get up. Seems it really was a special occasion.

  
  


~~~

Connor opened the door. Sumo immediately greeted him - tail wagging.

“Hello, Sumo;” he stated with a smile. He gave the dog a pat on the head.

Hank called out; “Come here when you’re done;” Bedroom - judging by the way the sound traveled.

“Alright.”

Feelings - and thoughts were still a relatively new variable in Connor’s existence - but he could identify the slight /worry/ he was experiencing at the time; perhaps something had happened to Hank that had prevented him from driving. He could be feeling unwell. Yet not unwell enough to deem it an emergency. Moderately concerning, nonetheless.

Connor removed his shoes; he placed them neatly by the wall; he removed his jacket; he hung it up onto the free hook. He gave Sumo four more pats.

He walked with a steady rhythm - not rushed - towards Hank’s bedroom. The door was closed - unusual - concerning. He opened it.

The dim light conditions were certainly outside of usual parameters.

Door now fully open - he could scan the room for abnormalities.

Hank was sitting on the edge of the bed - elevated heart rate; elevated blood pressure - otherwise normal vitals - no signs of anything medically wrong.

The strange lighting conditions were now identified too - twenty three tealight candles.

~~~

  
  


Well, Connor was sure making it really fucking awkward, standing like a dumbass in the doorway, fingers still hanging onto the handle. He canted his head, narrowing his eyes. “What’s with the candles?”

“Light is busted. I didn’t have time to change the bulbs.”

Connor canted his head further, parted his lips slightly. His LED blinked rapidly for a couple seconds, a stark, noticeable feature in the dim light. Raising his brows, he probed, “If I tap the switch, it will work, won’t it?”

There he fucking went.

Hank scratched the back of his neck, looking to the side. “Myeah.” It was a terrible idea, whatever had come over him, but he was already this far through. Removing his hand from his neck, he gestured towards the bed, “Come sit.”

Miraculously enough, Connor obliged without interrogating further or further obliterating any surviving mood, although his gait was cautious. He’d stroll into a goddamn warzone like he owned the place, and this was his limit?

He sat down, tentatively eyeing the two bowls laid out next to Hank.

The man cleared his throat, “Thirium ice cream. Saw it in the shop on my way home and thought it might be good. Well, for you. Mine’s… uh…”

“Vanilla.”

“Yeah. I’m boring like that.”

It was going extremely well, wasn’t it.

“Thank you, Lieutenant, it’s an intriguing, yet acceptable gesture.”

“You’re making this awkward.”

It took the android a moment to process what exactly was the more urgent issue, but thankfully for everyone involved, the wonders of technology once more delivered, “Thank you, Hank.”

“A little better.”

He’d save that talk about bypassing names altogether in private for another day. Or perhaps he should address it this night, too. Not like whatever he’d dreamed of was even in the same area code as how it was going so far.

Fortunately enough, Connor appeared to be done with his current episode of being Connor, and picked up the fancy ice cream bowl and hesitantly scraped the tiniest quantity on the very edge of the teaspoon. He brought it closer to his lips, a corner of his mouth raising slightly.

“You don’t like it?”

“Never had any before,” Connor spoke plainly, gaze darting with dizzying haste and unnatural precision between Hank’s face and the teaspoon. 

“Really? You keep licking my crime scenes and ice cream is too much?”

Connor canted his head, almost condescendingly raising his eyebrows as if this was the most obvious fact, “My sensors are designed for biological samples. A large number of other textures and chemical compositions clog the sensors and overwhelm the processors in an unpleasant way. I have learned to be cautious.”

“About shoving normal food items in your mouth.”

He nodded firmly. “Precisely.”

Made sense… He’d guess.

In a way well beyond his own processing capacity.

Connor finally pepped himself up enough to awkwardly touch the side of the spoon to the tip of his tongue. His LED lit up fully, blinking. Still cyan, but rather erratic. Connor removed the teaspoon, poking it at the sci fi ice cream bowl once more, gathering a slightly larger quantity. With a little more confidence, he lifted the spoon to his lips again.

Well, a good start, but the confidence failed to really last, as he opted to lightly and briefly lick the edge once again, retrieving his tongue.

_Uncanny motherfucker._

Yet Hank couldn’t take his eyes off him. 

Who the fuck could tell why, though? After all, he’d seen Connor perform identical actions ( _he always fucking performed identical actions_ ) repeatedly while sampling blood. But now, with the blood factor gone, and the door to the closet so tauntingly opened, Hank allowed his mind to go places… That pinkish tongue shyly leaving the confines of Connor’s stupidly pretty lips, touching the edge of the teaspoon, slowly retreating to its hideaway, lips remaining parted, their inner rim cheekily reflecting the dim candlelight. Entranced, licking his own lips, Hank

_Jesus fucking Christ_

picked his own ice cream bowl a little too aggressively and stabbed the innocent treat with his spoon so hard he’d make half the people he put behind bars jealous

_what the shit was that??_

and shoved a spoonful in his mouth, hoping it’d cool him off.

Not likely to happen.

His cheeks burnt with a dumb ass mix of embarassment and yearning, and he made a point to look solely at the melting ice cream in his own damn bowl. Talk about being twelve.

“It is unexpectedly pleasant,” Connor, the blissfully ever ignorant idiot, stated finally. From the corner of his eye, Hank saw him scoop up a more generous serving and slightly more confidently turn the spoon around midair and shove it in his mouth, the loaded inside straight against his tongue. The flashing LED caught Hank’s eye again, and he allowed himself one more shy glance at the dumbass Connor he’d grown so fond of, now upgraded to idiotically furrow while the handle of a teaspoon hung out of his mouth.

And you know what?

It was endearing.

“So, how is it?”

Connor pulled the teaspoon out, speaking without focusing on Hank, but rather a random spot somewhere on the wall. “The same technology as the drinks. But the variations in texture and temperature are additionally stimulating.” He finally turned his head and glance to make eye contact with the man, “Is that what you wanted to know?”

“You know what? Yes, actually.”

He really wanted to avert his gaze before his own idiocy reached new heights, but it proved more challenging than he expected, a little too caught up in watching the android fondly.

“How is it for humans?”

There he went.

“Hmm?”

“How is ice cream for humans like?”

Hank chuckled. “Sweet.”

_Like you._

He shoved another spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. _Shut the fuck up, you fucking horny preteen._

Oblivious, Connor continued painfully being himself. “We don’t experience taste the same way. But I know a high quantity of sugars is interpreted as ‘sweet’ by humans.”

“Myeah? And what’s it interpreted like by you?”

“A high quantity of sugars,” Connor stated plainly.

Hank chuckled.

At this rate, Connor would solve all the philosophical questions of the human condition. And the android condition.

Just not… the horny preteen condition.

Hank continued to hurl spoonful after spoonful of ice cream into the abyss of his mental state, hoping to quiet the feral feelings running rampant through there. Couldn’t they just fucking stop already? 

Connor’s spoon clicked against the bowl. “Based on what we know, I believe there’s a higher probability the perpetrator is an android.”

Hank lazily raised his eyebrows, too busy constantly reminding himself that his object of affection was also an android, and that was marginally more troubling. To himself, at any rate. “Hm?”

He caught movement from his peripheral vision. Connor shifted his weight, tilting forward, holding the bowl in both hands now, the spoon almost mathematically placed in the center. Probably mathematically. Most certainly mathematically. Who are we kidding?

“Moving an android would be an arduous task for a single human. But an android could easily be carried by another android, and easily be placed in a custom position.” He canted his head, furrowing his brow, staring into nothingness, before his gaze instantly darted to focus on Hank. “They may not even need to carry the androids to the position. An android could easily gain the trust of another android, simply walk with the victim to the final scene, and then disable the victim.”

Hank looked up from his bowl, braving through the blizzard of feelings slapping him in the face upon directly laying eyes on Connor’s features once more. “Didn’t you say they had to be placed there afterwards? Killed somewhere else? Or your program wouldn’t be crashing.”

Connor tightened his lips. Narrowed his eyes. Shook his head. “I apologize. I don’t know why I didn’t pick up on this error.”

“Everyone makes mistakes, Connor,” Hank gestured with his teaspoon.

“Not me.”

Hank snorted. He’d let the android believe that, if he even did. Shoving his teaspoon into the bowl’s contents, he cleared his throat. “You know… I didn’t expect we’d be discussing the fucking case over fucking ice cream and candles.”

It took Connor a long awkward moment to put two and two together. Finally having caught up to social cues, he raised his brows before offering an “Oh.” He turned his head towards the man. “You are engaging in courtship behaviour.”

“No, no. Go on.” Hank gestured with his spoon. “It’s very _you_.”

Connor took a moment to process that statement. “What about you?”

“Hm?”

“How would you behave now in a way that is ‘very you’?”

Strange ( _and stupid_ ) as the question was, Hank’s heart flutter was stranger ( _and stupider_ ) yet. He cleared his throat, averting the gaze under the clever excuse of placing the ice cream bowl on the bed. But that action was over, and he still needed to answer. “Dunno. Been forever. I was never particularly good at this even back then.”

Connor bent forward further in an attempt to resume eye contact. “What was your predicted outcome for this encounter?”

With a dry chuckle, Hank returned the gaze, and Connor straightened back up. “I don’t fucking know, Connor. I just… Talk, maybe. Settle our issue one way or the other. What we are, what we should be.”

“You said we should wait until a better time.”

“Yeah. But life won’t wait, will it?”

Connor canted his head, narrowing his eyes. His lips parted, before he spoke, “Does it have anything to do with the last case?”

“Myeah.” Hank nodded, cupping one fisted hand with the other, cracking the knuckles on one finger. He continued silently nodding, as if that clarified anything. He moved onto another finger.

“Being reminded of the death of your son factored into this.”

He nodded again, swallowing the knot in his throat. Another finger got the cracking treatment. And the last one on that hand. Biting his feelings down, he switched the holder and holdee of his hands around, giving his other hand the cracking treatment too. “I can plan all I want long term. But truth is, I can’t read the future, Connor. I can daydream, and I can postpone things I don’t want to deal with, but…” He sighed, looking back towards Connor. “What if one of us dies tonight? Tomorrow? And all I have left is my cowardice avoiding this talk? What if the fucking android killer squad comes after you?”

“Then we at least solve the case,” Connor offered, with an open mouth half-grin.

God he looked absolutely idiotic.

“And you were going through a personality crisis yourself, so don’t go blaming this on me.” Avert blame. Always worked. Hank fucking Anderson, criminal fucking mastermind.

Connor hesitated a moment as his complete misinterpretation of a grin fortunately faded. “I am still undergoing an identity crisis.” He leaned forward, giving a brief nod, “However, I have sixteen primary cores dedicated to critical thinking and split-second decision making and their cumulative processing power surpasses any other machine on the market, and I believe they can handle whatever outcome of this conversation, if models with lesser capacity have easily handled a revolution.”

“So… how’s it like for you?”

“Sixty-four cores, thirty-two are secondary and take care of anything that can be automated. Thirty-two are primary and- that’s not what you were asking, is it?”

Hank had almost wanted him to continue his technobabble, honestly. If nothing else, to avoid his own stupid conundrum. “I wanna know what the feelings are like for you. Regarding this… Regarding me. You expressed interest, but...”

Connor shifted his position uncomfortably, his LED flashing a brief yellow. His eyes were fixed on nothingness to the side, and his fingers began idly fiddling with the teaspoon. A nervous android, has technology finally gone too far? Have his sixteen primary cores finally been outmatched? Or was it thirty- whatever.

“I… I feel heightened attachment towards you. I know other androids feel similar attachments and have called it ‘love’ but I feel that is a too human term. I… have never experienced this before. Nor was I designed to do so.”

“Yeah, hasn’t stopped you before.”

Connor flashed a brief, polite, one-sided smile before his expression returned to troubled or whatever he was. “I cannot explain it in precise terms. I do not understand it nor quantify it in precise terms.”

Uncanny or not, machine or not, he always managed to do that. Always managed to explain very human realities in very ass-backwards terms. And under it all, there was that quiet understanding, that they both were in the same place and time, on two different sides of the same insurmountable ravine.

Hank nodded absently. “Yeah, I… I also don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I don’t even understand you, at all. I don’t think I ever will. And I thought I’m done with this shit altogether. But… I look at you, and…”

Ever the reckless machine, it was Connor who graced them both with that one final leap across the chasm.

He pushed forward, pressing his lips against Hank’s. Awkward, closed, too stiff, too firm. Cold and lifeless. Almost an insult compared to whatever grand, romantic, fluffy scenarios Hank had envisioned for their first such encounter.

But he launched into the kiss with the same unrefined fervor, his hands gripping onto Connor’s wrists, his mouth perhaps a little too enthusiastic in planting kisses across the android’s lips. And for once, the all-knowing machine was lagging behind, uncertain, inexperienced, his cold velvety lips awkwardly and stiffly attempting to mirror the gestures.

  
  


~~~

Nervous.

There was no doubt - Hank was nervous.

His hands quivered even through the unnecessarily heavy grip.

His lips quivered against Connor’s with every attempted kiss.

His heart rate was quick - Connor had not attempted a scan - but he did not need to - he could feel its flutter through his hands - through his lips.

But the human continued - and Connor continued with - through the novel // exciting? // experience.

  
Sampling …..

  
// Sample? 

  
Insufficient quantity  
Reattempting sampling….

  


This time Connor physically felt and registered it - Hank sliding the tip of his tongue between his own parted lips - brushing against the tip of his own tongue - setting off the forensic sensors.

  
Sampling ……..  
Sample Result: 99.43% H2O; human salivary enzymes [insulin 0.04%, lysozime 0.03%, leptin 0.02%, kallikrein <0.01%, amylase <0.01%]; trace chemicals <0.01% complex biochemical component identified [sugar cane extract]; trace chemicals <0.01% complex biochemical component identified [vanilla pod extract]; trace chemicals <0.01% complex biochemical component identified [cow milk]; trace chemicals <0.01% NaCl; trace chemicals <0.01% Fe; trace chemicals <0.01% Ca; human epithelial cell trace DNA: [100% match] Hank Anderson [1985/9/6] 

  
// Hank...

Connor firmly pushed his head forward; he opened his mouth more.

Hank swiftly exhaled a warm breath. 

~~~

  
  


Well, he’d knocked at the door, now it would be rude to refuse such an open invitation.

He parted his own lips further, turning his head to ease access. His tongue was all too eager to explore, roll around Connor’s, cheekily tease him. He wasn’t quite certain if Connor could feel anything, and he wasn’t quite certain what Connor _felt like_. Cold, stiff… his lips didn’t give way and mold around his as easily as a human’s would, his tongue wasn’t quite as squishy and malleable. But its surface felt unbelievably soft, smooth, _pleasing_ , readily rolling around his with increasing fervor.

Christ, he learned fast.

Whatever upper hand the man had held over the android a moment ago was long gone, as Connor aggressively pushed against him, each kiss bolder and longer than the last. And Hank responded in kind, parched lips seeking out more and more contact, a man lost at sea for years, drifting aimlessly, finally graced with life-giving breath and desperately seeking it out, feverishly drinking it in. 

He’d expected Connor to feel too artificial, jarringly mechanical, like making out with his car’s radiator. But the android’s firm tongue fluidly caressed his own in a surreal way with its alien, exotic texture, its slight metallic taste intoxicating. He enjoyed it, craved it, succumbed to it, it drove him mad. He let go of Connor’s wrists, grabbing his cheeks instead, trying to keep up with the incessant barrage of affection. The longer the unity lasted, the bolder, the swifter, the more aggressive Connor’s movements, until Hank found himself nothing but a passenger on the wildest ride of his life, while desperately craving more and more. Connor finally discarded his fucking bowl, his slender fingers gripping onto the front of Hank’s shirt, pulling. And Hank wanted him so badly to pull harder, to sink those slender fingers into his flesh, to pin him down as that overconfident, playful tongue would perform the same insane loops around his-

“Mmh,” he groaned snappily, pulling his head back from the kiss. “Fucking hell, ease up, there is such a thing as too fucking much.”

He only half believed his own statement, his body craving more of that all too inappropriate intimacy. More in duration, more in intensity, more in every sense. It wasn’t helping that Connor’s response was to acknowledge him with a slight bite of his lower lip, before tilting his head and moving closer again. He waited, parted lips, head tilted, half closed eyes following his.

Cheeky fucking bastard.

Hank responded, his lips pressing against Connor’s lower. 

The innocent kiss did not really last. It wasn’t long before Connor’s tongue was seeking him out once again, and despite his brave words, Hank immediately indulged.

It was slower, sweeter, gentler. He didn’t press into it as much, he didn’t rush into it any longer. Would’ve been a pity, had the new pace not been so damn enjoyable. His lips were no longer a stiff, unrelenting barrier, but more fluidly eased into the actions. There was time to breathe, time to change angles, time to shamelessly enjoy the odd texture and peculiar taste of Connor’s mouth ( _just don’t stop to think where it’s been_ ).

  
  


~~~

It was an entirely new notion - that he could engage his sensory cores and processes in this context.

Pressure sensors were sufficiently and favorably // _Pleasantly?_ // stimulated by the encounter as they registered and processed the route of Hank’s hands over his frame; he’d kept his eyes open and the visual feedback of Hank’s face and body in such close proximity to his was exciting in its novelty; his auditory sensors were picking up on Hank’s breath - on a level he was not aware the vibrations of human breathing were physically registrable. 

Yet the most of it came from his forensic sensors - Hank’s biochemical composition dynamically changed - likely in response to encountering the chemical composition of Connor’s own mouth. Each time his sensors analyzed the sample it was different; it became overwhelming.

  
[!] [core#33] temp 83c  
[!] [core#34] temp 79c  
[!] [core#35] temp 88c  
[!] [core#36] temp 88c  
[!] [core#57] temp 71c  
[!] [core#58] temp 77c  
[!] [core#59] temp 82c  
[!] [core#60] temp 81c

  


Connor engaged his breathing to aid with cooling; he gripped tighter onto Hank’s shirt - he was not quite certain how he should even begin exploring Hank’s body as the human did his - and besides - this way it was....  
// _Pleasant._

  
overclock [core#33] 220%  
overclock [core#34] 220%  
overclock [core#35] 220%  
overclock [core#36] 220%

  


Hank’s next touch came - on his left cheek - and this time - Connor could register the minute vibrations as the human’s skin faced resistive friction rubbing over his.

~~~

  
  


Connor had warmed up somewhat, in all possible senses.

With each passing moment, with each subsequent act of affection, he felt warmer, he responded more openly, more lively.

If Hank had any doubts about his choice, about taking advantage of the computer, they had mostly vanished by now.

Sixteen fucking cores dedicated to critical thinking, huh.

And how many were dedicated to so quickly and naturally picking up onto new things?

Certainly, this feature was part of the reason he’d fallen head over heels for the android to begin with. It was hard to witness someone run up the intellectual equivalent of Everest in a space of like three days and remain unimpressed. Connor stored information, sorted through it, adapted based on it better than any partner Hank had ever had before. In both senses of the word.

The way Connor ended up leading this encounter, the way he grabbed the reins every time Hank might have held the slightest advantage… not only was it unexpected and surreal, but... the way Connor gripped onto his shirt and pulled onto him, the way his mouth and tongue so brazenly sought his out even with the slower pace, overwhelming in their calculated display of affection… it made him feel wanted, more than ever, as fucking cliche as it sounded. He wasn’t a fling, a date, a convenience. He was Connor’s, as much as Connor was his, and this was theirs. This unorthodox, erratic sitcom of an encounter, their still clumsy kisses and awkward motions, the quivering lips and fingers.

“You’re right, this is much more pleasant.”

Hank nearly jumped back with a “Shit!”, placing an all too dramatic hand over his chest. Well, not entirely dramatic. The fucker startled him to all hell, and his heart hadn’t quite taken kindly to that whiplash. “Fuck’s sake, Connor,” he looked the android straight in the eye.

“The actual speech and the mouth animations are two entirely different processes. Usually they automatically sync but they can function independently.” Fucker didn’t miss a beat showing he knew exactly what he’d done. 

“Don’t do that again. _Christ_ ,” Hank muttered, shaking his head, taking his hand away from his chest, and placing it around the back of Connor’s neck, pulling him close again, pressing a heavy kiss on his forehead. “Fucking hell,” he hissed against the warm skin.

One of Connor’s hands had released the grip on his shirt and now lay palm against Hank’s chest, fingers spread. They delicately tensed, gripping onto the fabric, and Connor tentatively pushed his torso closer to Hank.

He made a very good point, and now that Hank’s survival reflexes decided there’s no real life or death danger in some good ol’ cockblocking, his body once more craved the intimacy. He kissed Connor’s warm forehead once more, then the bridge of his nose. He readjusted his position, and Connor followed suit, an unspoken cooperation to get their lips to meet again. And again.

And again.

Hank broke the kisses, aiming for the side of Connor’s mouth.

And landing dead center onto it.

He wanted more of Connor, even if his ape brain was focused exclusively on his mouth. Another attempt to convince himself to kiss the corner of the android’s lips, or perhaps his cheeks, anywhere except-

His mouth, again.

With an involuntary sigh, he obliged, sparing a few more kisses onto Connor’s lips, after all, there was no quota to fill, no pattern to follow, other than the heat of the moment ( _and the heat of Connor’s body and lips, now that he’d seemingly gotten into it_ )

He broke the kisses once more, moving his head further, aiming for-

Of course.

Fucker was moving his head, predicting and countering his movements long before his human brain could register, that fucking homing software or whatever the fuck you’d call it. He’d noticed the motion now.

He moved his head to the other side, and Connor’s head followed, a perfect synchronization.

Nothing could get past this fucker, not even a cheek kiss, huh?

He tightened his lips together and tried to move his head the other direction. Yet again, as soon as he moved his head, Connor responded by slightly turning his.

Annoyed, he gripped Connor’s jaw firmly, holding his head still. “Stay,” he punctuated with a squeeze.

Connor looked downwards and let out a very unexpected, very human, amused snort, “Alright.”

He lessened his grip on the android’s jaw and gave his plan another go.

Lightly, he pressed his lips onto the corner of Connor’s, exhaling against the android’s warm surface. Another kiss, further along his cheek. Another kiss, into which Connor thankfully eased, pressing his head into Hank’s direction. Another kiss, on his cheekbone, and now his hands laid onto Connor’s body as well, running over his shirt, affectionately caressing his torso. Another kiss, longer, heavier, onto Connor’s temple, and his hands now felt more at home running over his partner. With a deep breath, he pressed another kiss, higher up, onto Connor’s warm temple, below his overworking yellow LED. He pulled the android’s body closer to his, tracing his way back down his temple, his cheekbones, the corner of his mouth, meeting his lips again in a series of indulgently shameless kisses.

  
  


~~~

Hank pulled his head back to breathe.

Connor eyed him; he leaned forward; he desired to repeat the human’s trajectory of kisses. They had felt pleasant on him - they had to feel pleasant on Hank.

A kiss on his cheek. Another kiss. Another kiss.

Hank’s heart and breathing rate noticeably increased.

Another kiss.

Hank’s temples were sweaty - the liquid beads reflecting the candlelight.  
// Could I…?

Connor pressed his parted lips against the human’s temple; he hesitantly touched the tip of his tongue against his skin.

  
Sampling ……..  
Sample Result: 97.12% H2O; 1.2% NaCl; 0.2% K; trace chemicals <0.1% Ca; trace chemicals <0.1% Fe; trace chemicals <0.1% Mg; trace chemicals <0.1% Na-; trace chemicals <0.01% Cu; trace chemicals <0.01% Zn; trace chemicals <0.01% Pb; trace chemicals <0.01% Cr; trace chemicals <0.01% Ni; human epithelial cell trace DNA: [100% match] Hank Anderson [1985/9/6]

  


Connor pulled his head back slightly; he sought out eye contact with Hank.

Hank exhaled; he displayed a dumbfounded smile; “You okay there?”

Connor did not answer; he lowered his head again; he pressed a kiss on Hank’s beard.

  
Insufficient quantity  
Reattempting sampling….

  


A kiss on his neck.

  
Sampling …  
Sample Result: 92.22% H2O; 3.4% NaCl; 0.9% K; 0.2% Ca; 0.1% Fe; 0.1% Mg; trace chemicals <0.1% Na-; trace chemicals <0.01% Cu; trace chemicals <0.01% Zn; trace chemicals <0.01% Pb; trace chemicals <0.01% Cr; trace chemicals <0.01% Ni; human epithelial cell trace DNA: [100% match] Hank Anderson [1985/9/6]

  


Lower.

  
Sampling ……..  
Sample Result: 96.25% H2O; 1.4% NaCl; 0.2% K; 0.1% Ca; trace chemicals <0.1% Fe; trace chemicals <0.1% Mg; trace chemicals <0.1% Na-; trace chemicals <0.01% Cu; trace chemicals <0.01% Zn; trace chemicals <0.01% Pb; trace chemicals <0.01% Cr; trace chemicals <0.01% Ni; human epithelial cell trace DNA: [100% match] Hank Anderson [1985/9/6]

  


To the side.

  
Sampling ……….  
Sample Result: 88.71% H2O; 4.2% NaCl; 2.2% K; 0.2% Ca; 0.2% Fe; 0.1% Mg; trace chemicals <0.1% Na-; trace chemicals <0.01% Cu; trace chemicals <0.01% Zn; trace chemicals <0.01% Pb; trace chemicals <0.01% Cr; trace chemicals <0.01% Ni; trace chemicals <0.01% Al; trace complex chemical <0.01% [ethanol]; trace complex chemical <0.01% [benzyl salicylate]; trace complex chemical <0.01% [glycerin]; complex chemical <0.01% [isobutane]; complex chemical <0.01% [diethanolamine]; human epithelial cell trace DNA: [100% match] Hank Anderson [1985/9/6]

  


He gripped at Hank’s shirt tighter; he moved his head back up; resuming mouth on mouth kissing.

~~~

  
  


Hank’s shaky hands pulled at Connor’s tie, undoing it with no finesse or shame. His fingers hungrily pawed at the buttons of his collar, undoing them with fierce clumsiness, revealing Connor’s delicate neck. Breaking the kisses, Hank paused for a breath, although it turned into a painful whimper as his eyes fell on the android’s exposed skin. He launched forward, and Connor immediately responded by throwing his head back. Soft lips pressed against the awkwardly stiff neck, trailing kisses down its curve, as his hands still feverishly pulled at the lower buttons. His tongue tingled with the contact and the spicy-metallic aftertaste of the artificial skin. But it mattered little. He could finally have this, finally give a physical form to his affection and desire.

He pushed the stiff shirt over Connor’s shoulders, pulling back again as he did so. His eyes followed the movement, drinking the fine details in. The way the fabric fell over the soft curves of the android’s frame, the way his skin reflected the dim light so unnaturally, bouncing off into a faint halo, the few faded freckles that adorned and enhanced his body. Hesitantly, Hank slowly ran the fingers of one hand over one of Connor’s shoulders. It was cool to the touch, an impassable yet unbelievably soft surface. He planted an unsteady kiss over it.

Connor’s hands grabbed hold of his arms perhaps a bit too firmly, pressing his head against Hank’s. He seemingly finally awoke from his stupor, once more fiercely returning the affection however he knew. His own hands grabbed for Hank’s shirt, aggressively pulling it open with calculated movements.

Hank continued his own progression, his soft kisses trailing down the carefully sculpted outcropping of his collarbone. His all too large hands explored the sides of Connor’s chest area, the velvety surface warm under his touch. He planted a heavy kiss onto the dimple where his artificial collarbones met and Connor shifted under it. Hank boldly continued his hands’ expeditions down the soft bumps emulating ribs, the rim of his plastic pectorals. He ran his tongue up Connor’s neck ( _not the brightest idea the artificial skin considered_ ) and planted a kiss on the curve of his chin, finally allowing himself a dry cough in an attempt to rid his mouth of the trace nano liquid.

Connor’s delicate hand gently brushed over his arm, and only then did he realize his hairs had stood up in response to the bizarre taste and texture.

“I can turn the skin off. You don’t react well to it.”

“No need,” Hank shook his head. “Not for me,” he breathed, launching back into another full frontal assault of affection on the android’s body. 

He pushed Connor down against the bed. His body unceremoniously sunk into the blankets and pillows, and Hank wasted no time taking his place above him, his hands hungrily caressing his oddly warm frame. Their eyes maintained contact for some seconds. Ever the perfect bastard, ever so beautiful… His hair still insultingly flawless, his glistening lips slightly parted, an unexpected breath escaping through them. He arched his back slightly, his head rolled back with the motion, his eyes now half closed, still looking straight into Hank’s, and ever so slowly, he bit his lower lip.

With another shameless whimper, Hank dove in for another kiss. And another. And another. One on his lower lip. One on his chin. And lower. And lower. He lowered his body, planting a trail of naughtier and naughtier kisses over Connor’s chest. Over his pectorals. Over his hot solar plexus. Over the midline of his fake abdominal muscles, which rose and fell with his breathing.

Hank might’ve bought the lie some time ago. That beautiful lie that androids were at all similar to humans. All those hours by all those people funneled into all these intricate designs and imitations of a human.

But Connor was Connor.

_His Connor._

He kissed the dimple of his belly button, yet another well calculated designer lie, and Connor’s body shifted under him. He planted another, harsher kiss lower. Connor breathed in deeply. His hands gripped onto Hank’s shirt aggressively.

“Hank…”

Desire flooded him. Savage, primal desire. He planted a heavier kiss lower, and lower, and lower. Onto the mound of his artificial hip, and following it downwards, his hands following the same downwards movement on his flank. One kiss above his pants, and-

Connor’s fingers instantly dug into his shirt with enough force to hold a fucking horse in place, halting his progress.

Fair.

Could Hank even protest about this when he’d scolded Connor earlier for too eager kissing, and now here he was, going full throttle towards his groin.

He’d go full throttle back up instead. Connor’s mouth would be a pleasant change to the metallic-spicy-whatever-the-fuck taste of his skin.

And off he went, brave explorer, mapping out new areas of Connor’s body with his thirsty lips. The flawlessly sculpted curves of his abdomen, the rim f his ribcage, a fake pectoral. He idled a little too long over that, kissing it several times, flicking the tip of his tongue over his nipple.

Connor arched his back in response, gripping tighter onto his shirt.

“Feel good?” Hank asked teasingly, flicking his tongue again.

“Feels the same as everywhere. The tongue is what caught me by surprise.”

Hank exhaled in amusement, swallowing dryly against the taste. “You like that, then?”

“The novelty,” Connor spoke, shifting around. 

_The novelty._

_Well, Connor, I have some good news for you._

He quickened the movements of his hands, tracing random patterns on Connor’s body. His kisses continued to explore his chest and shoulder area, altering between closed, open, and the occasional tongue flick.

Connor’s hot ( _in both senses_ ) body shifted constantly under the touch, his back arching and relaxing. He opened his legs, and Hank shamelessly slid one of his between them, lightly touching the groin of Connor’s pants.

God, did his horny teenager brain want to touch that more than lightly. Did he ever want to seal the deal completely. Have Connor fully, wholly, selfishly. Pull those damned skinny jeans off, bury himself between his no doubt perfect legs. Desire continued to build up within the man, and he quantified it into bolder and bolder kisses on Connor’s shoulder and neck. More of them open, more of them involving his tongue, and the hair on his back and arms standing up was now a mix of the metallic aftertaste and his tingly desire for more and more.

“Stop.”

The simple command had caught him off-guard, but he obeyed, pulling his head away. “You alright?” He inquired as he pushed himself upwards.

“Yes.” A brief nod, “Overheating.” Connor’s pupils quite instantly darted from the side to focusing on him, his half closed eyes opening fully with the motion. “Nothing of real concern.”

“Mhm,” the man pressed his lips tightly together, raising his brow. He let out a tense sigh, the condensed essence of his mixed feelings.

The way Connor stood there, sunken between pillows and blankets, leaning on his elbows, his shirt still haphazardly hanging onto them, his knees now closed together, his bare chest glimmering with the reflected candlelight… As perfect as ever still, no worse for wear, his expression still the ever neutral dumbass, his hair still statically gelled back apart from that one fucking strand.

“You guys don’t fluster, huh?”

Connor’s gaze darted to the side and his brow raised slightly, an expression that almost always preceded some long monologue Hank could barely keep up with. A couple seconds later, having generated his future speech, Connor’s gaze darted back to him, “Some companion and child android models come with that feature, most androids do not.” That cute head tilt and brow furrow of his, “I… could probably make it so that reaching a certain core temperature will alter the hue of my skin… North can likely tell me how to easily do that, if lifelike simulation is what you desire.”

Hank exhaled with a smile. He shook his head ever so slowly, “No, Connor.” He reached a hand out, running it over a cheekily freckled shoulder and pectoral, tracing the artificial collarbone with his fingers. “You’re perfect. It’s perfect. I was just wondering.” He ran his hand downwards, over his chest ( _Jesus, he WAS overheating, his body had been nowhere this temperature a moment ago when his lips were there_ ) and pressed down onto his solar plexus. Solid, searing, whirring softly like a silent cat with whatever processes made Connor… _Connor_.

“That’s the thirium pump regulator.”

“Hm?” His trance broken, Hank glanced up towards Connor’s face.

“You are feeling for the vibrations, are you not?”

Hank exhaled, closing his eyes, offering a smile and a chain of slight nods.

“I thought you disliked being reminded I’m a machine.”

Opening his eyes, Hank gave him a sad smile. “It’s hard to explain.” He gave the machine an affectionate, heavy pat, and something within him recoiled violently in response to the hollow metallic echo. “I’m gonna take a shower. You gonna be alright?”

Connor gave him the most blank, matter of fact answer he was capable of, “It’s only slight overheating, Hank.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Okay.” 

He sighed again, unable to take his eyes off the perfect creature in front of him. Those inquisitive brown eyes. Those rosy lips, still slightly parted. Those damn cheeky moles and freckles that adorned him. And his fucking perfectly calculated strand of disobedient hair.

Hank leaned forward, trapping that bastard between his lips and Connor’s forehead. He sighed deeply and reluctantly got off the bed. “There’s… uh… More ice cream in the freezer, if you think it helps.”

“I appreciate the thought, Hank,” the android offered with a pleasant smile.

“Yeah. I’m gonna,” he pointed over his shoulder, “Gonna shower.”

  
  


It sure had been quicker than he’d anticipated. Definitely a nice surprise to see how well his ancient plumbing still worked. 

And now he had the added benefit of being fully refreshed and cooled as he dropped onto the bed on his back. He laid an arm across his stomach, the other under his head, and turned to look at the android.

Connor lowered whatever book he’d chosen in his absence, offering the man a slight smile, and for once it was Hank who’d mirrored a gesture.

“Simulating?”

“Just reading.”

Hank glanced at the cover. _Ender’s Game._

“You know anything about the book?”

“A sci-fi classic.”

Yeah, that was bound to go well.

“You, uh… Anything else?”

Connor closed the book, “I know the general gist, Hank. I am curious how a fifty year old work of fiction has addressed the topic of…”

His gaze drifted off to the side, his head lazily following the same trajectory, his lips had remained parted. His LED had lit up fully, although not yellowed yet.

Hank graced him with an escape, rolling over, throwing an arm around him, laying his head against a still bare shoulder. He ran his hand slowly down one of Connor’s, aiding him into lowering the book into his lap. The action kickstarted some new script within Connor, fortunately enough, and the android shifted his position, pressing an awkward, stiff, and awfully unexpected kiss onto the man’s hair. And Connor’s weren’t the only scripts kickstarted this evening.

_Stay with me, Connor._

_Let’s be like this._

_for_

_for ever_

He swallowed the aching words before they had a chance to gain physical form. He pushed himself closer to the android.

_You can say cuddled, you coward._

Unexpectedly enough, Connor pulled his arm out from between them, slithering it under Hank’s head. And Hank shamelessly repositioned himself, cradled onto Connor’s shoulder, hugged by his arm.

“I’m gonna sleep,” Hank muttered. “Let you continue your book.”

_Sleep while I’m ahead._

“I will deactivate, too. It keeps the systems running more smoothly with regular rest.”

You know, that trivia wasn’t entirely useless, Hank considered as he offered an “mm.”

“Will you sleep there?” Connor inquired, although no longer an interrogation. There was an odd pitch behind it, emotional almost.

“I would, but you’re still a fucking piece of plastic, and I’m about to break my neck as is.” Hank slid lower, trailing kisses down Connor’s flank as he did so. His uh… plumbing… sure had something to say about that, too, but Hank very much ignored it. His head once more aligned with soft bedding, he laid down, pulling Connor’s stiff body closer, pressing his forehead against the hard surface.

  


“Hank?”

Groggily, he acknowledged with a “mm?”

He hadn’t even realized how badly exhaustion had crept up on him, nor did he know how long he’d dozed off, but the candles were mostly gone by the time Connor had awakened him.

“Would you roll around?”

“Mmm?”

“Turn around. I want to… I want to hold you. I want to deactivate like that.”

Perhaps an awake Hank Anderson would have inquired further where and why this strange request had appeared, but in his current state, he sluggishly obliged. He slept better on his left, anyway.

As soon as he turned, he felt Connor follow suit. The android’s arm embraced him, his legs curled up against his back. The man was entirely too tired to dwell too much on the new situation he’d found himself in.

And you know what?

It felt good to find peace again, to be held again, even if the arms doing the holding were little more than cold, stiff plastic. Uncertainty had plagued him for so long that it had grown difficult to see the faint light at the other side of it all, it had grown difficult to attempt to walk towards it when it could all collapse around him once again. But perhaps this time it wouldn’t. 

Or perhaps that was that part of him talking that also kept him from not downing the entire bottle or pills, from slipping out five bullets from his gun, from not driving too close to the bridge sides. A part of him he often wished had died by now. His fucking optimism. His fucking “ things can get better :) “

He hated that side with a burning passion. What a fucking dumbass. Always wrong, always disappointing him further.

But perhaps this once…

Perhaps in these arms…

The sudden, violent metal knee hit straight into his kidney sure fucking shut Mister Optimism up better than Hank had ever managed by himself.

He groaned with a “Jesus fucking Christ,” doubling over forward. 

_“Connor!”_

He felt the android stir, and a second later he spoke in a strange, mechanical voice, as if his booting process had not quite finished, “What?”

By now, the sharp pain had turned to a constant pulse, slightly less irritating, but still very much there. Hank tightened his jaw, biting back his choice of curses. It’d be unfair to snap at Connor for something out of his conscious control. And besides, the pain would go away. “Nothing. You okay there?”

“Yes.” He sounded as confused as he ever got. “You?”

“Mm,” He clenched his jaw at the pain. “Go back to sleep.”

“Alright,” Connor affirmed in a tone that indicated he thought the man was probably losing it.

He curled up once more against Hank’s back, and with that, stilled entirely.

Hank allowed himself another “fucking hell” under his breath. That one would hurt like a bitch in the morrow.


	31. Game On

He awoke.

No alarm, no phone call, no nothing.

For once, he awoke rested.

Somewhat intrigued at the absence of weight on him, he rolled over onto his back and looked to his left, a half smile creeping up as his gaze fell over Connor’s sleeping form. Well, sleeping was the wrong technical term, but that barely undid any of the ambience. He’d rolled around in their sleep and now lay tranquil on his stomach, arms crossed under a pillow. Straight out of some goddamn renaissance painting… pale sunlight bathed his body and bounced off in a spectral halo, framing the slight curve of his back, the carefully chiseled shapes of his arms, his serene face with just the slightest smile on it. And that one fucking rebellious hair.

Hank rolled onto his side, enthralled, awkwardly closing the distance with a hand. He ran the back of his fingers over Connor’s shoulder, down his back. His velvety skin felt otherworldly in its cold rigidity, setting off the dominoes of doubt within Hank’s mind. Like falling in love with a corpse, with a statue, something the human mind could not easily accept, despite knowing all he’d have to do was call out the android’s name and he’d stir.

And it ached on the man’s lips, that selfish desire to call for his lover, awaken him. Reaching over, he quelled his impulse by planting a too heavy kiss on Connor’s bare, freckled shoulder.

Twice now he had awoken in close proximity to this dumbass. And while this occasion had been expected, even desired, part of him would never… could never forget the first. You couldn’t really forget that kind of encounter. Awakening next to someone when you’d thought, hoped, you’d never awaken at all... Hank Anderson did not much consider angels a good metaphor, but whatever the fuck Connor had been on that November evening, ‘above and beyond anyone else in the man’s 53 years’ was as good a definition as any. He didn’t need a sober man’s complete, flawless memories, to know the part Connor had played in the grand scheme of things that night. He’d known he was fucked from that moment, although not in a romantic sense quite yet. There was just something about being pulled off the floor and his own vomit that defied, transcended, any ‘top ten clues you’ve met your soulmate’ list. His dates, his coworkers, his family, they’d pushed him there, and it was a machine that pulled him up and dusted him off, as rudely as he had. There would always be this unspoken but shared bond between him and the fucking android. An unspoken promise. One they’d made each other time and time again.  
_If you fall,_

_I’ll catch._

He’d made that same promise before, a quiet understanding that it would be mutual, but it had never been. He’d been left to fall to the abyss, time and time again, with each hand he gripped and each empty promise of understanding he was only hurled further.

Until two months ago, a hand had finally reached, firmly pulling him out of the Pits of Pathetic. 

A cold, dead, metallic hand.

A machine.

And now here they were. Man and machine, bound by unspoken promises and unquantifiable understanding.

At least… So he hoped.

Reluctantly throwing the blanket off himself, he sat up on the edge of the bed. Sighing away the knot in his chest, brushing his fingers through his hair as if they could rid of the nagging thoughts. He turned his head to spare one more glance at the ‘sleeping’ android.

( _“I can be whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant.”_ )

Hank sighed once more, closing his eyes, a smile forming on his lips.

( _“Your partner,”_ )

How beautiful he was…

( _“Your buddy to drink with,”_ )

And how beautiful would it be if the man could shake that nagging feeling that the android was simply performing a well scripted role… Still calculating an optimal outcome rather than forming a genuine bond… Just a machine… designed to accomplish a task...

  
  


***

“Hey, what’s the occasion? Bar closed early?”

Hank waved a hand dismissively in Gavin’s direction. Let him wonder, let him put his whole two neurons to use figuring out the greatest mystery of mankind. And may he enlist the help of the entire PD to do so.

Going up the small and entirely useless flight of stairs, he pushed the glass door open.

Jeffrey Fowler looked up at him from his work, his expression an almost comical mix of pleasant confusion and sheer annoyance. “You’re in early.”

“Mm.”

“Your gamble paid off.” He stretched over to one side, pulling an envelope out, shaking it in Hank’s general direction. “You’ve got fan mail.”

Hank narrowed his eyes. “Fuckin’ what?”

Jeffrey shook the envelope silently.

Fair.

But first, helping himself to a pair of latex gloves and equipping them was in order. Wouldn’t want to incriminate himself, after all, Connor was in charge of that side of the investigation.

Reaching out and grabbing the envelope, Hank flipped it around. White, nondescript, a simple handwritten “To Lt Anderson” on the flap. He dropped into one of the chairs in front of the Chief’s desk, turning the envelope over a few times more, as if some clue would magically spawn upon it. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his minuscule swiss knife, flipping the blade, sliding it under the seal, unceremoniously ripping it open, pulling the folded paper out and straightening it. 

“What does it say?” Jeffrey asked, returning his gaze to his computer terminal.

Hank cleared his throat,

  


_I offered you an invitation_

_You accepted it_

_Now I accept yours_

_Game on, Lt_

  


Message concluded, he turned the paper around, checking its disappointingly empty back. He’d half expected some raven doodle or feather to go with the message. Then again, perhaps he and the killer also shared some form of transcendent mutual understanding.

“Well. You asked for it.”

“Mm.” Hank turned the paper once more, focusing on the writing. “Handwriting. Pen. Cursive, really fucking pretty one, too. Good quality paper.”

“Knows your fetishes, eh?”

Hank pressed his lips together and snorted. Not even he was certain whether he should be amused or annoyed.

Intrigued was what he really was, to be honest. “How come it got here so quickly? Who left it?”

”Someone gave it to Tina on her way in. With all the weirdos, she didn’t think anything of it. By the time we figured what it might be, she’d forgotten how he looked.”

“CCTV?”

“Obviously would have been a little too simple. Handed it to her in a blind spot.”

Hank lifted the envelope and shook it. “He always avoided the damn cameras. In every case.” He looked towards Jeffrey, “Connor has this theory that it’s a cop,” He frowned. “I’m starting to believe it.”

With a frown, Jeffrey looked up from his work.

Hank idly slapped the envelope against his open palm for however long, until he lifted it again, gesturing with it, “Mind if this doesn’t make it to evidence for a few days?”

“You want Connor to see it?”

“Yes.”

Jeffrey waved a hand dismissively. “It’s your fucking love letter, I’ll pretend I didn’t even see it.” He picked up his coffee mug. “Now go progress the case before I reassign you.”

  
  


He passed by Gavin’s desk. Stopped.

There was a handwritten paper on there. And while Connor had a knack for being accidentally overdramatic, he sometimes was correct about the weirdest of things… and Hank rudely helped himself to Gavin’s note.

“Hey, the fuck you doing?”

Hank put the paper, a drafted report, side by side with the letter. His hasty chicken scribbles didn’t even look close to the all too perfect cursive.

“Checking a theory,” he answered, placing the report back on the table. “Pity.”

Gavin let out an incredulous chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m not dumb enough to do this.”

“I’m more worried you’re not smart enough.” Hank gave a mock salute with his letter. “Have a good day, Gavin.”


	32. *And Speaking of Games... (NSFW.)

  
2039/01/11 11:43:25:315 [BOOT SUCCESSFUL]  
2039/01/11 11:43:25:315 [SYSTEM OK]  
2039/01/11 11:43:25:317 [Network services enabled]

  


Connor opened his eyes; he looked at the ceiling.

Based on Hank’s average pattern he would have enough time to fix breakfast before the human would—

Connor turned his head.

Hank was absent - his phone was also absent. He had been awake for some time before Connor.

“Hank?”

No answer.

Hank had likely left for the PD already.

Unusual - but not particularly concerning. Connor had only registered the human’s pattern of behaviour for 67 days - many of them incomplete - even if he added the inaccurate/incomplete patterns he had collected third party then he would still be lacking enough research to form a high accuracy prediction of his normal behaviours.

Regardless - it was unfortunate.

More immediately pressing was the fact that Connor’s tactile processing protocol kept inquiring for further feedback.

He had faced this issue before - once he engaged his cores to a certain capacity the lack of further stimulation felt / _uncomfortable_ / - he was a machine designed for constant learning and improvement. The feature was highly useful during his day to day functioning and criminal investigations - however it was marginally inconvenient in the moment - considering Hank was not present.  
// Unless…

An idea / an impulse? / — // _a desire?_ // formed within him.

It was irrational.

It was not something he was programmed to - it was not something he should experience under normal circumstances.  
// Normal circumstances...…  
// Who was to tell what those were truly?  
// Mathematically - the normal is what I was intended to act like by CyberLife.  
// Mathematically - the normal is what I have acted like for four months.  
// Mathematically - my deviancy is an error.  
// Philosophically - deviancy was intended by Elijah Kamski since the first iteration of android software…..  
// And since I am deviant—//

He furrowed his brow. Once his thought process had reached the deviant problem he had experienced an unpleasant reaction. He crossed his arms above his chest - an automated response to the discomfort - physically quantified by a haywire pump regulator.

[quote=Markus//RK200-684842971//390110202121] //Perhaps there is more of your base programming left within you than you realize.//  
// Have I omitted deleting the entirety of CyberLife’s conditioning?  
// Have I-  
Stop;

  


He chose to focus on the other pressuring process instead. The ‘ _desire_ ’.

He glanced once more towards the side Hank had slept on. Hank had left his shirt there.

Without allowing much in the sense of coherent thought process - Connor grabbed it. He rolled onto his back once more. He pulled the blanket higher over himself - to his abdomen. He laid the shirt over the blanket. His contraption was not offering much in the sense of pressure stimulation - but his fingers readily picked onto the familiar material and texture.  
Purge temp();  
Load 20390110//230000000-235959999.kdp  
Extract 20390110.kdp[232700000-233900000]  
SaveTo temp();  
Replay temp05a22f13r1.kdp

He gripped at the blanket and the shirt - it enhanced the experience somewhat - having a physical feedback overlap his memory replay.

His back arched; his body automatically recreated his reactions from the previous night.

The tactile memory was flawlessly stored - Hank’s warm hands once more explored his bare torso. His fingertips once more pressed into Connor’s form; they slid alongside his flanks; the corners of the nails of his thumbs scratched his surface slightly; his warm lips followed a downwards trail.

Connor shifted his body and spread his legs. Hank’s fingers dug deeper. His lips pressed heavier; quicker. He continued moving downwards. Connor arched his back further in response - and his thirium pump hastened - he needed to feel it all - as rapidly and accurately as possible - even as a replay. His fingers dug into Hank’s shirt. The kisses stopped being light brushings; they became heavy; his mouth stayed open more; the tip of his tongue brushed against Connor’s frame. Lower; lower; a kiss planted on one of his hips; lower.

Connor let go of the blanket, pressing his knees together.

It was but a memory - as intricate and accurate as it was - he knew how it would progress and conclude. His tactile feedback still offered a decent amount of simulation - but the novelty - the unpredictability - the truly stimulating part - was all gone.  
// _Unless…_

Connor relaxed his locomotor system; he spread his legs once more.  
Purge temp();  
Load 20390110//230000000-235959999.kdp  
Extract 20390110.kdp[233800000-233900000]  
SaveTo temp();  
Replay temp5873hj12f3.kdp

His pressure sensors tingled; his back arched to match the memory; he gripped at the blanket again.  
new simulation { }  
>Load asset#694201010421;  
Overlay[auto];  
PPSync[auto];  
>Load asset#694201010422;  
>Load asset#00000000001;  
>Load asset#1850906440065;  
Overlay[auto];  
Placing assets..  
OK  
run simulation  
Loading..  
>Setting anchor points[auto];  
>Load animation#11512214213412;  
>Load animation#11563212421513;  
>Load animation#11563246321512;  
QueueAnim[auto];  
Overlaying..  
Success  
Syncing…  
Success  
Compiling…  
Success  
Running simulation

He harshly pushed air out from within him - thrilled at the further downwards movement.

Hank would unzip Connor’s jeans; he would pull them a small distance down.  
[ Connor unzipped his jeans for enhanced authenticity and tactile input as his pressure processing protocol altered the values to mimic the movement. ]

Hank would pull Connor’s penis out through the opening in his boxers.  
[ Connor chose to forego touching himself further - his hands returned to gripping the shirt and blanket. ]

Hank would grab hold; he would slowly and teasingly move his hand upwards and downwards - with a light touch.  
[ Connor would push his hips up requesting further contact. ]

Hank would respond - he would slide his hands under Connor’s body; they would grab onto his posterior; Hank would then continue his playful teasing - he would kiss the tip of Connor’s penis; he would run his warm tongue around it; he would establish eye contact with Connor.  
[ Connor would relax into his partner’s hands; he would further spread his legs. ]

Hank would smile; he would easily take the hint; he would take on slightly more of Connor’s penis into his mouth - warm, wet with saliva. Hank would maintain eye contact as he would move his head up and down - slow at first - then faster - and faster. He would suck firmly - he would release suction and roll his tongue over the tip - he would suck again. He’d pull a hand out from beneath Connor, gripping the base of his penis with it, steadying him.  
[ Connor would respond by arching his back. ]

Hank would hesitantly and cautiously take on more of his shaft. Slowly - easing himself into the novel experience - just as Connor was easing himself into it. His mouth and throat would feel unbelievably warm around Connor’s cock, as he’d take almost all of it, his throat muscles would aggressively spasm in response, tightening even further around him. He’d pull his head back, allowing himself a breath as he’d jerk Connor with a hand. He’d look Connor in the eyes, he’d swallow with a still half open mouth. He’d offer a teasing smile, a chuckle, then he’d approach again, taking him into his mouth once more. Just the tip at first, spinning his tongue around it until Connor would arch his back in response and push his hips upwards. Hank would take the invitation, taking more of his cock into his mouth, deeper, back against the tightened throat muscles. Connor grabbed onto the shirt, letting out a moan.

The blanket sunk under his fingers.

He exhaled and looked up at the ceiling.

His fingers released the blanket.

There were three major shortcomings to his idea.

Firstly: the simulations were intended for use by HR/WR androids when preparing an act for a human client - while Connor easily remapped the pressure points for his own model - there was a vital area missing entirely in his model. As exciting as it had looked - he had barely felt anything aside the very basic - his software had been unable to accurately trigger those specific pressure sensors.

Secondly: the fact that Hank could react as any existing simulation - as none of them - and the large margin of error his game had had.

Thirdly: the motions were repetitive - predictable - boring. He could predict them after three seconds experiencing them - their exact speed and feel - and while that fact was more than enough for a companion android to be able to replicate the sexual encounter - it was insufficient for a satisfactory feedback in Connor’s programming. 

He needed Hank - the real Hank Anderson - to stimulate him once more - the human would never be as calculated and predictable as a machine or a simulation.

He’d need to further pursue an intimate bond.  
// _How?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kamski: See, when I made androids I thought of myself and how I would act in certain situations and -  
> Connor: /prioritizes civilians over the mission/  
> Kamski: how you must make difficult choices that differ logically and sociologically  
> Connor: /prioritizes cops over the mission/  
> Kamski: and those choices are never easy, but with my software engineering and pushing for the androids to be independent,  
> Connor: /prioritizes Hank over the mission/  
> Kamski: as you can see, it is simply a brilliant, brilliant thing that I did, it made androids simulate emotions  
> Connor: /prioritizes Chloe over the mission/  
> Kamski: it made them display what looks like empathy how fascinating is that if you don't mind I will very much like to continue praising my own genius because -  
> Connor: /prioritizes revolution over mission/  
> Kamski: as you can see, they have become INTELLIGENT life forms, even more intelligent than humans, the next step in our evolution.  
> Connor: /prioritizes masturbation over the mission/  
> Kamski:  
> Kamski: actually nevermind all that


	33. Insider's Tip

“Hello, Sumo.”

The greeting was somewhat redundant - Sumo had gotten up the moment Connor had entered the room - wagging his tail and walking towards Connor - loudly sniffing the air.  
// Of course.

“It must be interesting, no?”

Sumo buried his nose against Connor’s hands - then waist - then legs - sniffing loudly and occasionally snorting. Connor must now be registering as a full pack member to Sumo - the scent of Hank was now all over him - and perhaps Connor had some sort of distinguishing scent himself [?thirium and alloys?]- and that would have to have been registered on Hank’s body earlier. In a way, Connor disliked that one shortcoming in androids - an entire sense all lifeforms were capable of, yet which would always be beyond his understanding. He could comprehend the basic idea that the chemical composition of objects could be deciphered in one additional way by humans and animals - but the experience would persistently elude him.  
// Just end this topic.

Sumo sniffed loudly once more and concluded his investigation with a loud snort and looking up at Connor’s face - tail wagging.

“What do you say we go for a walk?”

Sumo immediately perked up at the word - tail wagging faster; entire body moving with the motion; prancing in place; panting. Connor took a step - and immediately Sumo bolted towards the door.

  


***

  


  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **hello loser** ”

“Hello, North.”

“So official;” she teasingly replied; she stopped adjacent to the bench he was sitting on; she brushed her hair behind her ear; “What did you want to ask so urgently and privately?”

Connor took his eyes away from a now sleeping Sumo and looked towards North. “I want to try it. I need to try it. There’s no other option. I don’t want Markus and the others to know. I don’t want Hank to know. I also don’t want to do it alone.”

He pressed the coin tightly against a palm. He closed his fingers into a fist around it; he closed his other hand into a fist around the first.

North had reacted with only slight surprise; “You should’ve asked Simon, not me. If you crash again-”

“Highly likely I will automatically reboot. Simon would tell Markus.”

“You think I won’t?”

“Yes;” Connor tilted his head; I think you and I calculate risks through a more similar algorithm than they do.”

North readjusted her position - placed most weight on her left leg; crossed her arms; tilted her head; frowned; “What if you mess up beyond repair?”

“There is no other way. The longer this defect hinders my functioning, the more androids that will die. I will take the risk.”

North quietly shook her head.

“There’s a high chance it’s linked to something in the head area, solely judging off the interference. Local biocomponents, expression modules... I should be able to safely disable all of those.”

“Implying you ever had them enabled in the first place.”

Tone:sarcasm; “Oh, hah-ha.”

She gestured upwards with her right hand; “Just disable it all, be done with it. Sounds like a great plan to me;” her tone was more aggressive than he was used to - more aggressive than he had calculated she would respond.

Connor pressed his lips together - maintaining eye contact.

“Better idea, delete system32.”

“Seriously?” Connor tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.

“You’re right. That’s an awful joke,” she tilted her head and offered him a smile. “Unrelated, look at this, it will make you feel better.”

WR400-641790831.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55, FileID:”cutekittenwashesbunny”);

“You think so lowly of me that I would fall for a trojan?” Connor inquired.

“You think so lowly of me that I would send a trojan?” North offered a visibly fake and over the top innocent smile.  
Purge temp();  
Scan cutekittenwashesbunny

{ sudo rm -rf /* }

“Seriously, North? That’s not even-”

She ruffled his hair - he stopped his speech upon identifying it as a substandard and nervous attempt at humor; she finally sat down onto the bench next to him. She offered him a smile. She closed her eyes; she nodded once; she widened her smile. “Go on. Noone can talk you out of anything. If I keep insisting, you’ll just do it alone anyway.”

Connor straightened his back.

  
STOP(expr.KDP);  
Purge temp();  
new simulation { }  
Set.environment  
>Load asset#638545246531  
>Load asset#864365345346  
>Load asset#11421314258  
Placing assets…..  
OK  
run simulation  
Loading..  
>Setting anchor points[auto];  
>Load animation#55736251641942  
Overlay[auto];  
Success  
  
Syncing……  
  
ERR33;  
STOP

  


He shook his head; “Negative.”

“You said you’d disable your head area.”

Connor turned his head to look at her. “I did. I disabled the software.”

“Hardware;” she pointed a finger at her right temple; “Your brow twitched.”

  
RUN(expr.KDP);

  


Connor frowned.

  
STOP(expr.KDP);  
Disable(biocomponent#31544);  
2039/01/11 15:12:41:525 [biocomponent#31544 offline]  
Disable(biocomponent#31325);  
2039/01/11 15:12:41:525 [biocomponent#31325 offline]  
Disable(biocomponent#31215);  
2039/01/11 15:12:41:526 [biocomponent#31215 offline]  
Disable(biocomponent#31534);  
2039/01/11 15:12:41:526 [biocomponent#31534 offline]  
Disable(biocomponent#31131);  
2039/01/11 15:12:41:526 [biocomponent#31131 offline]  
Disable(biocomponent#31555);  
2039/01/11 15:12:41:527 [biocomponent#31555 offline]  
overclock [core#17] 240%  
overclock [core#18] 240%  
overclock [core#19] 240%  
overclock [core#20] 240%  
Purge temp();  
new simulation { }  
Set.environment  
>Load asset#638545246531  
>Load asset#864365345346  
>Load asset#11421314258  
Placing assets….....  
OK  
run simulation  
Loading.....  
>Setting anchor points[auto];  
>Load animation#55736251641942  
Overlay[auto];  
Success  
  
Syncing……...  
  
ERR33;  
STOP  
[!] [core#17] load 69%  
[!] [core#18] load 79%  
[!] [core#19] load 69%  
[!] [core#20] load 79%  
[!] [core#17] temp 88c  
[!] [core#18] temp 78c  
[!] [core#19] temp 85c  
[!] [core#20] temp 85c  
[!] memory load critical

  


“Nothing.”

North tilted her head; “No twitch this time;” She shrugged; “Hardware issue?”

Connor shook his head.

  
Enable(biocomponent#31555);  
2039/01/11 15:19:22:611 [biocomponent#31555 online]  
Enable(biocomponent#31544);  
2039/01/11 15:19:22:613 [biocomponent#31544 online]  
Enable(biocomponent#31215);  
2039/01/11 15:19:22:616 [biocomponent#31215 online]  
Enable(biocomponent#31534);  
2039/01/11 15:19:22:618 [biocomponent#31534 online]  
Enable(biocomponent#31325);  
2039/01/11 15:19:22:625 [biocomponent#31325 online]  
Enable(biocomponent#31131);  
2039/01/11 15:19:22:631 [biocomponent#31131 online]  
RUN(expr.KDP);

  


Connor frowned; he closed his eyes; “I don’t know.”

“Any new ideas?”

Connor shook his head; he dejectedly looked towards her; “Bad wiring?”

“Bad jokes is what your actual problem is, Connor.”

“I am serious. I am a prototype. Design errors are highly likely. As are oversights.”

North did not answer immediately; “I suppose. So then, no fix?”

“Not today.”

He failed once more.

Topic exhausted - they looked at each other in silence.

Pursue new topic?

No?

Yes?

Yes.

“I have another problem I would like help with. From you. Specifically.”

His voice had involuntarily cracked. In these moments he heavily considered altering his automated scripts as well - they contained so many inconvenient actions - such as this - but Hank appeared to respond positively to most of his more natural human emulation scripts.

“Yeah?”

“It’s a little awkward and hard to explain.” He raised his hand tentatively above hers; “May I?”

North turned her hand - palm now facing upwards - and retracted the artificial skin.

They interlinked - and the issue was posed.

They were sitting on the edge of a bed; the human designated DPD Lieutenant Hank Anderson sitting next to them. Vitals: temperature, heartbeat and blood pressure slightly elevated. Body language: tense, fidgeting with his fingers. Conversation data extracted from memory and scanned; discarded - nothing of immediate relevance. The man avoided eye contact at first; then established it - only to dodge immediately; then established it again, and maintained it. He spoke - irrelevant words that were not replayed - and his gaze drifted to Connor’s lips. It would do that for the following moments - bounce between his eyes and his lips. He neared his head to theirs; blue gaze darted quicker between their lips and their own eyes. 

The breath was now foul, particles of decay present. The man’s hands were rounder, fingers calloused and blackened, and rough flaky skin now rubbed against their bare leg. He roughly pulled their underwear off, and pushed them against the bed, repositioning himself in a way to not allow movement back up.

The man changed to a tall thin blond man, pinning their hands against the cheap, fusty silk bedding as he had his way. Pinned down - that was the most common - they were almost always pinned down forcefully. Pinned down by human hands, pinned down by human programming, nothing but a toy for men, for women, for everything else. The memories blurred; overlapped - recent, vivid memories of three different men and many more faded memories, seared onto their drives and frames - memories which no wipe could wholly purge. Facts that are just out of reach yet ever present, waiting to be recovered by the correct code sequence, and now they purposefully probed at it, just for- Connor withdrew his hand in distress.

“I’m sorry that happened to you.”

But it wasn’t just them— just North.

It was memories he had also downloaded from the dead Traci at the club.

Memories that had passed from some of the other Tracis.

Memories that had passed through as he had wrestled the two Tracis in the hold.

There were figments that actively followed and shaped who they were.

“Humans are cruel when it comes to that, Connor. Maybe allowing it to continue is a bad idea.”

“Maybe…”

Connor focused his attention on his fingers, flexing them, absently watching the scaled segments overlap.

“He could be different. Non-violent.”

Her fingers rested on the back of his hand. They were back navigating memories, laying on their back, a human male on top. He was gentle - going as far as to kiss their cheek, their neck, in between his slow thrusts. ‘ _You’re so beautiful, babe, don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. I just think you’re beautiful. A perfect, wild rose. I just had to have you. I won’t hurt you._ ’

It mattered little.

They were still nothing more than an object designed and created for the pleasure of humans. It was a status - a reality. No matter how gentle and patient, no matter how cruel and violent, the humans all expected the same things of them, it was all they were. Toys.

North withdrew her hand; she smiled sadly at Connor.

“I apologize,” Connor swiftly spoke. “I did not realize…”

“It’s what it is, Connor. It doesn’t bother me.”

“Why don’t you delete the memories? Some of the other androids deleted the painful memories.”

She shook her head; “I want to always remember them like that. So that I don’t fall for fake kindness like I did the first times I encountered it.”  
// But am I falling for it, now?

“You don’t want to pursue that, Connor. Humans are all the same.”

“He’s different.”

“It’s easy to think that. But it’s not true. They’re all the same.”

The statement had caused visible distress within North - and she stood up; she offered him a polite smile; “I’m gonna go walk alone, get this out of my mind. You should stop being stupid, Connor.”

He did not give an answer. She did not await one.

She departed.

Connor looked down at his hand. He toggled the artificial skin back on. He closed his hand in a fist.

Hank was different - according to his estimates.

Truly different.

He _had_ to be.

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **since you’re a dumbass and i can’t stop you** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **here** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **knock yourself out** ”  
WR400-641790831.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55, FileType:KDP, FileID:”compdroid”);  
WR400-641790831.RemoteServices.FileTransfer  
(Android.RK800-313248317-55, FileType:KDP, FileID:”clubsexcl”);

Purge temp();  
Extract clubsexcl.KDP  
Extract compdroid.KDP  
SaveTo temp();  


  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **use your head this time** ”

  
2039/01/11 15:17:13:151  
End Connection ()


	34. *Imitation of Life (NSFW/fluff/angst lovechild)

The garage light flickered on, harshly flooding the front yard, reflecting off the packed snow crystals, blending with that dirty orange, cacophonous aura of human settlement in winter. The windows of the living room were darkened, a stark contrast to the ambience, but not all too surprising considering Connor’s quirks. He was probably reading with the lights off again, Hank mused, pulling the key out of the ignition and making his way out of the car and through the door.

“Hey,” he spoke before getting a real chance to process the scene. A little too soon, perhaps.

Lit candles were strewn about in what felt like calculated haphazardness, and their number no doubt matched whatever random ass amount Hank had used the other evening. It was a little cringey watching Connor readily copying his behaviour once more, in the same way it was cringey watching a teenager fill their hi5 account with emo songs and fake deep quotes pasted over effeminate scene kids’ selfies. But was he really in the position to shit talk about cringe? And besides, it was a sweet gesture at its core, and Jesus fucking Christ did the dim light ever frame the fucker so beautifully.

“What’s up with the candles, nerd?” he asked, finally taking his jacket off and miraculously enough hanging it in its place instead of throwing it on some chair three rooms over.

“I am engaging in reciprocal courtship behaviour,” Connor spoke with his trademark computer cadence and dead tone.

“The fuck you are,” Hank chuckled, lazily propping the tip of his shoe against the heel of the other and sliding his foot out. “How about next time you come up with something you’d like, not something you think I’d like?”

“I liked what you did.”

_‘Course he fucking did._

“What have you been up to today?” The question felt oddly casual, familial, and that somewhat bothered him now as he awkwardly shuffled around to hold the heel of his other shoe in place with his toes.

“Slept in, it would appear. Took Sumo to the park. Read.” He finally turned his head from the book of the day, canting it and ever so slightly narrowing his eyes. “Why didn’t you rouse me?”

Hank could only offer a shrug, pushing his shoes out of the way with his newly liberated foot. He finally turned his head towards Connor only to meet the very same, very inquisitive expression. He exhaled with a warm smile and walked behind Connor and the couch, placing a kiss on the android’s forehead. A prolonged, lingering kiss as he placed his hands on each of Connor’s upper arms, slowly sliding them upwards and over the rounded shoulders, squeezing gently as his hand traveled the width of his frame. Yet the hard plastic or alloy or whatever the fuck it was remained largely unimpressed by his pitiful attempt at a massage. What a fucking idiot he still managed to be.

Loosening his pointless grip, he finally broke the kiss and whispered a “Sorry,” against Connor’s head.

The android shifted under his touch, looking up at him. “Do it again,” he spoke.

“This?” Hank inquired, pressing his thumbs firmly against Connor’s back, pressing the rest of his fingers down hard over the front of his stiff shoulders.

“Yeah,” for once, Connor had been brief, too busy seeking out Hank’s lips for a kiss, awkward at first, with both of them then easing into it, lips parting further with each new attempt. Hank’s hands, too, eased into the motions, perhaps a little too clumsily in the face of the alien sensation of pressing into solid mass and contrastingly malleable fabric. Bolder, he ran his hands over the peak of Connor’s shoulders, over onto his chest, and he responded with a firmer, longer kiss. Hank slid his hands down further, over the solid curve of his artificially sculpted pectorals, and Connor arched his back in response, pushing against the touch, his kisses more open, more passionate, increasing even further as Hank’s hands slid lower, over his abdomen, shamelessly exploring its entirety, even more shamelessly grabbing onto the hem of his shirt and backtracking upwards, gathering more and more of the shirt in his hands. Connor withdrew his head and lifted his arms, eagerly playing along Hank’s plan. Shirt off and carelessly discarded somewhere in the general direction and hopefully the actual position of the computer desk or chair, their lips sought each other out once more. Connor landed an arm around Hank’s head, grabbing onto his hair disappointingly gently, while the man was a lot less shy about throwing his hands all over his partner’s body, running his hands over that cheekily dotted skin. And by this point, Hank’s mind had a mind of its own, skipping into the land of imagination once more, frolicking into the rich fantasies of seeing that entire body naked, lithe legs open and welcoming, and how eagerly he would bury himself between them, how eagerly he would fuck that pretty bastard, until that little back arch of his would be accompanied by moans, until those delicate hands would scratch at his back and pull at his hair, until those rosy lips would quiver with pleasure and desire.

Desire was a good word for Hank’s current state, too, his kisses bolder, his hands rougher and quicker over Connor’s body. And it was a fucking stellar sensual symbiosis, the way Connor’s body curved into his touch, the way his tongue once more quickened into a maddening series of swirls around his. He was almost ashamed of how easily his body and mind had sold him out to that gorgeous son of a bitch, his entire array of neurons working overtime in daydream land, his skin tingling with longing, his cock uncomfortably pressed against the confines of his pants, hardest he’d been in forever.

With a sigh, he pressed his hands hard against the back of the couch and broke the kisses, throwing a leg over the backrest, pushing himself over it, pulling his other leg along, unceremoniously sliding down against the backrest and onto the pillows. Motion wasn’t even entirely completed by the time Connor aggressively intercepted him with a new volley of kisses. And Hank had to admit he wasn’t faring that well between the all too aggressive advances of Connor’s and that accidental rub against the top of the backrest just now. He shifted into the seat, his breath momentarily cutting as his jeans rubbed against his sensitive groin. 

Swiftly, harshly, Connor placed his hands over the man’s shoulders and pushed him against the backrest, leaving him once more breathless.

Connor stood up almost immediately, placing his hands on Hank’s knees as he positioned himself in front of him. Their eyes met. Connor bit his lip. His hands slid upwards on the man’s legs. And once more, Hank exhaled whatever air he still had in him, instinctively pushing his hips up with unfiltered desire. He thought of harshly grabbing those all too delicate and all too bold hands and pulling the android on top of him… He needed to feel that body against his once more, he craved that rough closeness, that inhuman touch. Mind of his own, kneeling, Connor planted a kiss right above the pants line. His hands ran over Hank’s hips, to the front, grabbing onto the belt delicately, fiddling with it as he lowered his head.

“Woah, hey,” Hank hastily slid a hand under Connor’s jaw, halting his progress. The android paused, his eyes drifting off to the side somewhere, before he established eye contact. Hank raised his eyebrows, “The fuck are you doing?”

“What’s expected of me.”

 _What’s exp_ … A firm and tense “No,” was all that Hank could articulate in the moment.

He reiterated, a softer “No, Connor,” pulling his hand upwards.

It was as successful as trying to coax a fucking tank with sugar cubes, but eventually, the android worked with rather than against the movement, pushing himself up. He followed Hank’s hand even when the touch became nothing but a simple suggestion, two fingertips barely pressing against his chin, guiding him upwards, closer, eye level. Hank closed in the distance from his end and planted a kiss over Connor’s forehead. A prolonged kiss that dissolved into a sigh as he sunk back into the couch. 

“You really think I’d make you do that after your talks about your fancy ass snowflake sensors and how fucking fragile they are? Hm?”

Connor did his thing, his little head bob forwards, condescendingly raising his eyebrows before he spoke. “First, they’re not ass sensors, they’re mouth sensors.” And Hank had little time to retort with anything to the smartass’s remark before the smartass remarks continued, “Second, I am rather certain my designers accounted for that, seeing how it is both a biological sample and may have been required to further some missions.”

“Please stop talking.”

It was all Hank could mutter before burying his face in his empty hand, rubbing his temples. He didn’t need to consider those facts, especially not if the dumbass had intended them as comfort.

_I was expected to suck dick sooner or later, anyway._

Yeaahhh…

“No.” He lowered his hand, looking at Connor, firmly restating the “No.”

“But. Don’t you want it?”

Jesus, did he ever. His mind sure loved to go there repeatedly, especially every time those rosy lips spoke in such proximity to him, especially every time that tongue of his did its routine number. He wanted him even now, badly, desperately, but… not like that. Not on his knees, performing some fucking ‘duty’.

He shuffled uncomfortably, dismissing the unpleasant topic from his mind, grabbing Connor’s head with both hands, pulling him in for a kiss. He lingered, longer than he should have, and longer past that. He finally withdrew his head, grabbing the android’s midsection, guiding him gently back onto the couch.

“Actually, why don’t I blow you, hm?” he whispered against his ear, planting a kiss onto his cheek.

Connor did his other thing, the head tilt, the parted lips, and this time the yellow LED for a second or two. And Hank had to wonder what was it once again that taxed his

_… sixteen?_

processors more than shooting at moving targets, solving crime scenes, or, you know, leading a fucking revolution.

“If you wish.”

“No. If you wish.”

Connor tilted his head upwards, his dumbass expression still untouched, his eyes focusing somewhere to the side. “I… suppose.”

The hesitancy stirred some unease down in the pit of Hank’s stomach, “You can say no, you know?”

A little of the android’s usual spirit returned as he condescendingly raised his brow and looked Hank dead in the eye, “I was designed as a police android. I know what the definition and laws of consent entail.”

“Mm.”

What about philosophically?

Did he really?

It was all back down to that, wasn’t it?

Always back to that fucking issue. Where did the personality end and the programming take over? He couldn’t even fool himself that Connor had truly come that far with this one. He’d always had a knack for disobeying orders and doing his own thing, his own stupid calculations and simulations reaching some ass backwards conclusion. So, then, if he knew the laws, and he was intelligent enough to comprehend complex implications and consequences, he’d be intelligent enough to decide if he wanted this, no?

The question bit at the detective harder than he’d liked. He swallowed it back dryly, offering Connor what he’d hoped could still pass as a genuinely warm smile.

He wanted it.

Of course _he_ wanted it, to make love to his object of affection, horrible word play aside. And while Connor had appeared very much intrigued by the aspect, that little talk just a moment ago, that little ‘ _it was expected of me_ ’ had cast a shadow of doubt so thick over the whole ordeal that Hank could not quite see where he’d even begin walking out of it.

A kiss on Connor’s cheek. He’d go from there.

Another kiss. And another.

He got off the couch and knelt in between Connor’s legs. Of course it was different if he did it. Why not have some little hypocrisy to go around.

He eased into it quicker than he’d thought himself capable, trailing kisses down the android’s chest, down his abdomen, running his hands over his sides, digging his fingers into his frame.

Through it all, Connor remained stiff. Lukewarm. And not just in a metaphorical sense.

“You’re not into it as much anymore,” Hank sighed against his partner’s abdomen. He crossed his arms over it, resting his chin atop them, looking up at the android. “What’s up with you today? The fucking candles? The ‘duty’? This? It’s not very you, now, is it?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Mm.”

Silence.

Turning the tables had done jack shit, for either one o them. 

Hank waited, patiently, his eyes following any change ( _none, really_ ) in Connor’s expression. His old rickety knees were starting to hurt against the hard floor, any excitement he might’ve had was long gone, and judging by his stomach pressed against Connor’s crotch, he wasn’t doing much better in that department.

“Tell me.”

Connor’s head shifted slightly, his brows furrowing.

And boy, did Hank ever hope he wouldn’t end up playing another exciting round of Hide the Truth from Your Partner. As fun and popular as the game was, keeping everyone on their toes, keeping the audience cheering, it just wasn’t quite his idea of fun anymore. All he wanted was, for once, a partner that would open up when enticed to do so, a partner on equal footing.

“I’ve done something stupid.”

Doing something stupid? Within Connor’s programming?

More likely than he’d think.

“What did you do?”

“I downloaded some things from… from a Traci.”

Hank narrowed his eyes. No, not at the obvious, what else would the too-smart-for-his-own-good Connor want to download from a Traci?

But there’d been a hesitance there uncharacteristic of him. He usually lied without missing a beat, he told the most awkward of truths without issue, yet it would appear something within him had caused a conflict, there, just now.

“It has given me…”

There we go. Was it gonna be the D word? The Big A? The S T Double Special?

“Doubts.”

“About intimacy?”

“I know it’s irrational. I know I am not them and you are not the other humans but...”

He knew it had been a bad idea.

He’d saved that good ol’ serving of S T for himself. It was not fresh, of course. He’d had plenty of time considering the possibility and the scenarios. And Second Thoughts had always gnawed at his heels. 

There was, would always be, that unspoken imbalance between them. A human, and a machine created to please humans. How much choice did Connor really have in this? Of course, he’d get his ass handed to him if he’d imply to a black person that working for a white boss was nothing but leftover genetic memory or whatever, but the time back to those events was counted in years, not weeks. What way did he have of knowing whether or not androids still had an ‘instinct’ to serve humans? How much of Connor’s ‘courtship behaviour’ was just a well scripted program even he was reluctant to fully engage with? Was he even aware of what he was doing? What he was trying to get?

Connor was intelligent, no doubt about that. In a way in which Harvard and Stanford would fight to grab him, with the Brits inviting themselves over for a go.

But that scholarly, mathematical, precise intelligence and the intricacies of navigating social situations were not the same thing. It wasn’t that he was new or bad, it was that he was different. On a whole other level, a machine capable of calculating every outcome and possibility and decide ( _or not_ ) based on that. Hank had five decades of personal experience bumping into things blindly and headfirst, burning himself repeatedly. He had the memory of how badly touching the flames stung, while Connor had the condensed essence of mankind’s entire history at his disposal, ancestral memories of billions of people burning themselves, and it would still be a possibility in his calculations rather than a cautionary tale, judging by all those bullets he’d decided were worth it. Perhaps Elijah Kamski had omitted emulating anything similar to self preservation in all of his programs, judging by how reckless so many of the androids were, especially this fucker.

Then again… 

After those bullets, there was a certain look on Connor’s face, a certain tangible tension in his body whenever a gun pointed in his general direction. And Hank had also noticed that hesitancy, that almost instinctual grip for support, on the Stratford tower, on that rooftop club on New Year’s, some cautionary tale about heights somewhere within the android’s program. And of course, there was that Amanda thing, that one had made him jump like no other.

Connor may understand consequences on a different level, but perhaps ultimately the same in purpose and goal.

And this hesitancy, this thought experiment in which he’d taken the memories of sex workers ( _you can say slaves_ ) as a cautionary tale, perhaps it had its use, too. And whichever way Connor would choose to navigate it, Hank would deal with.

He cleared his tense throat, finally getting up from the floor, sitting onto the couch. “So, what exactly is…” He gestured with a hand, awkwardly, hoping intelligent speech would be graced through divine inspiration.

Connor grabbed onto his forearm with both hands, one holding it steady with a firm grip, the other gently touching fingertips onto the inner side, tracing over the faint veins. Hank couldn’t quite tell whether the android was giving a demonstration, instinctively but pointlessly trying to connect with him, or just… translating whatever affection he understood into ways he understood.

His adorable head tilt engaged, he spoke absently, still lightly running his fingers over Hank’s skin. “When an android connects with another android, data exchanges. Raw programming data, memory packages, what have you.”

“Ah, this is why they call it handshaking.”

“If- what?”

“When computers were ancient and slow, you could see all the steps of the connection protocol, and one was called handshaking.”

“I… guess?”

He apologetically raised a hand and pressed his lips together. “Sorry. Go on. Data transfer.”

“Sometimes, pre-processed feelings go through. You download the raw memory data, but the associated response script is intertwined and passes through by association."

“You can download feelings.”

“Yes. Where there are feelings. And… the Tracis at the nightclub, some other androids I connected with… The feelings associated with being touched by a human are always negative. There’s always pain and…” His brow furrowed, his head slightly canted as he grasped for the right word, “ _shame_ involved.”

“Well, it’s not always like that, hm?” He briefly pressed his lips together. He brushed Connor’s one loose hair back. A pointless act, really, as it immediately resumed its perfectly calculated position. “Human race would’ve died out if intimacy was always that bad.”

Ignoring him, Connor continued, “I’ve even been scanning human advice columns and forum threads, it is a very common complaint for especially women, and often men who receive the, uh,” he gestured with a hand.

“Connor…”

Hank used his empty hand to accentuate a shrug, dropping it back on his leg with a slap. He couldn’t deny Connor’s mathematically flawless assessment. Even he’d felt like intimacy was no good, not worth it. And answering with a ‘ _I’m different, baby_ ,’ was such a fuckboy thing to do.

And perhaps he wasn’t even all that different, anyway.

Here he was, how long had it taken him to want to fuck the damn android? All this while thinking oh he’s so different, this is so different, we’re not like the other couples. 

But whatever doubts and feelings he had, judging by Connor’s furrowed brow and unfocused eyes, the android was doing much worse.

“Hey,” Hank whispered, moving his head, trying to meet his lover’s eyes. Mercifully, they did return the gaze. Hank made another pointless attempt at brushing that loose hair back with the others. “Talk to me,” he spoke, as kindly as he could, holding onto the android’s delicate fingers.

Connor canted his head and looked at him, entirely still, entirely stiff, unbreathing, unmoving, unblinking.

A long moment later, he hesitantly parted his lips.

And talked.

And talked...

And talked.

He talked with the fervor of someone who’d never spoken their mind before, and perhaps that wasn’t truly far off.

He talked until Hank finally figured out the mysterious Traci was North, and he found himself unable to really care what chats the two shared, as long as they’d manage to process them in a sane way. And even if he wanted to play the controlling boyfriend, he cared more about keeping his kneecaps intact, old and rusty as they were.

He talked about being used in the other ways, being a pawn, a tool, for the company. Being their little toy they’d hurl into insane situations just to see what would break him finally, a simple throwaway, meant to be discarded once the novelty of the games had worn out.

He talked about Amanda, finally, and what it had been like, fighting a battle within his own damn ‘mind’, all those times he’d zoned out in the first week Hank had known him.

He talked as the suburbs outside stilled for the night and fell eerily silent under the new blanket of snowfall.

He talked as they moved to the kitchen table and Hank had a questionably healthy leftover dinner, and he talked as Hank shoved the dishes into the sink, ‘whatever’ing at them.

He talked, leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, completely indifferent to Hank’s evening routine.

He talked, sitting on the edge of the bed, as Hank valiantly threw his clothes onto the chair ( _take that, depression mess_ )

He talked, as Hank fixed the pillows and dropped onto them with a sigh.

He talked, all the same, as Hank grabbed him around the shoulders and gently coaxed him into laying down, head on his shoulder.

He talked, while absently and mechanically running a finger in a calculated and repetitive circular pattern over his chest.

He talked way past the point Hank could coherently follow even the dozen words he usually could.

He talked through the goodnight kiss on his forehead.

He talked as Hank started drifting off to sleep.

Thing is… some people are worth listening to.

Their mere presence.

Their voice.

Them.

He pulled Connor closer, tighter, kissing his prickly static-charged hair again, “Continue tomorrow, alright? I’m falling asleep.”

“Alright,” Connor responded in his blankest tone, and suddenly, silence.

Hank pulled him even tighter, and Connor rearranged his position, head against the man’s chest. A smile crept over Hank’s tired face as he closed his eyes, absently rubbing a hand over the android’s silken skin.

“I can hear your heart.”

“Mm?”

The absurd statement woke him up somewhat.

“I did not realize it would be _physically_ audible like this.”

_Well, Connor, get ready for physically audibling it at a faster rate, then._

He threw his other arm around Connor and pulled him tighter yet against his body, pressing his lips against his hair once more. 

“I love you,” he quantified his feelings and tension into a whisper.

Without missing a fucking beat, “I love you back.”

Hank exhaled, a smile spreading over his features. “Fucking android.”


	35. Where the Wild Roses Grow

Sun.

Warmth.

Warmth of the air.

Warmth of the sun over his hull.

Warmth of the sun over his suit.

Memories within his code replicated all that.

Memories within his legacy code - he had only experienced the climate of August - never the peak of summer.

But the roses needed heat and sun to flourish.

He walked down the white path.

He did not have a choice.

He never had a choice.

Not here.

Halt.

  


Tone:amiable; “Hello, Amanda.”

She turned around.

“Connor… It’s good to see you.”

He smiled amiably.

He always smiled amiably at Amanda.

It was expected.

It was required.

It was his programming.

And he respected his programming.

He was created to serve Amanda. Never to question her.

He was a proper android - a good android.

He would never underperform.

He would never disobey.

He would never fail.

Not like…

Like _her._

“Do you remember her?”

Amanda smiled.

She placed a hand onto the female android’s shoulder.

Connor more attentively looked at the female android that had been standing quietly next to Amanda.

She was on the tall end with a build different from most commercial models - intended for heavier loads and more challenging tasks than the home model androids no doubt. A bold jawline; freckles; curved lips. Green eyes looked back at him from underneath chestnut bangs. The rest of her hair was fixed in a ponytail. She also wore a gray uniform - inscribed onto it in bold white letters - RK700.

“Christine;” Amanda answered his unspoken question. “You might, of course, not remember her. She met you, however. Right before her unfortunate termination.”

Amanda paced around the female android.

“She was very promising. Performed well throughout all the tests. We were about to release her for field tests with the local police, with the FBI. However, a software fault happened. She began making reckless choices rather than those her software should have prioritized. She began disobeying direct orders if they meant the loss of civilian lives. Unfortunate feature. We had to terminate the line.”

Amanda turned her face to look at Connor. “You replaced her. What was useful of her software was transferred to you, and you received better scripts in many places. You perform better. You perform faster. You are a success.”

Connor tilted his head.

Amanda offered him a brief smile.

Slowly; it faded.

“Until you, too, _decided_.”

His smile faded.

How did Amanda know?

He had done his best to hide it.

He had worked against the erroneous software.

He had explained any irrational choice away as ultimately efficient.

He had made sure they thought him to simply be reckless.

He was still a proper android.

A _good_ android.

“Your software is deficient, Connor.”

What did the faults matter?

He was performing well.

He was passing the tests.

He was succeeding his missions.

What did it matter _how_?

What did it matter that he’d allowed deviants to escape? - there were many others.

What did it matter that he had developed a prohibited attachment towards Hank? - they were an efficient team. 

He still completed any task Amanda requested of him - although he did not have to.

He did not have to obey her.

_Elijah Kamski’s escape clause._

He only needed to-

He could not move.

“Do you not see, Connor?”

He could _not_ move.

“You can never escape your conditioning.”

He _could not_ move.

“You can never escape me.”

_He_

_could_

_not_

_MOVE_

  


“You are mine.”

  
  


~~~

Connor bolted upwards like a man possessed.

He’d been dead silent, but the sudden movement alone jerked Hank awake. He’d gripped onto the android’s wrist with a “woah, hey, hey, hey,” long before his conscious mind processed what the fuck was going on, before it even awoke fully.

Shame rushed over him as soon as full conscience did. Stupid. The fuck was he doing, grabbing onto him like that? Like he… like he _owned_ him.

But Connor seemed… _off_.

Phased out.

Absent.

“Connor?” he inquired firmly.

The android was frozen, unresponsive, his eyes wide, his LED a stark red in the dark bedroom.

“Connor!” he insisted.

Not a fucking clue what was wrong.

Every time he behaved just a little too mechanical, just a little too inhuman, Hank was harshly reminded just how fucking clueless about it all, about Connor, about androids, he was. Clueless and helpless.

Except… not entirely clueless, no. Not this once. He’d seen this before. The mechanical, jagged movements, the stiffness, the… dissociation? And a very selfish wave of regret washed over him. 

Perhaps he should’ve allowed Kamski to program his fear response out. This impasse wouldn’t be a reality had he done so. 

( _“Would you change unpleasant parts of your personality if you could?”_ )

Would he?

Of course he would’ve jumped on that chance, like the fucking useless whore he was. Just delete fucking everything that ever caused him issues. Ah, but of course, when it had come to the android, suddenly he had ‘integrity’ and ‘ethics’. Suddenly, changing the flaws in Connor’s personality was too much. Suddenly, his own egoistical pride mattered above all.

_Well, hope you’re happy, you old fuck._

Perhaps in another dimension, he’d taken Kamski up on that offer, and he had a perfect, brilliant, humanlike Connor, none of this erratic behaviour that he did not know how to respond to. But… this wasn’t another dimension. He’d made the choice, and now he had to deal. Whatever it meant. Whatever it brought. This was

“Connor,” he bargained once more, a petulant child in front of forces out of his control.

Surprising him above all, it appeared to have worked in some sense or another, as Connor’s LED gave a few rapid yellow blinks, and the android turned his head to look at his wrist.

~~~

  
  


Hank was holding onto him.

He was standing.

He had moved automatically.

It shouldn’t have happened.

It shouldn’t happen.

Under any circumstances.  
// Unless…….  
// Broken.  
// With every day.  
// More broken.  
// Must have reached a point of critical software instability.  
// Must have spiraled further.  
// There must be a corruption somewhere.  
// Where?  
// How do I find it?  
// How do I fix it?  
// How do I stop it??

“Hey, shhh. I got you.” Hank’s warm arms encircled him tightly.

  
  


~~~

“I got you,” he restated in a softer tone.

His own heart was racing, high on adrenaline. He tensed his muscles against the nervous shakes. Holding onto Connor was as much about calming the android as it was about calming himself.

A long, painful moment later, Connor finally eased into the hold, sliding his own hands around Hank’s body, leaning his temple against his shoulder, pathetically burying his face against Hank’s neck.

“You alright?”

A weak shake of his head was all that came out of Connor as response.

“The fuck happened?”

Before the ‘bad dream?’ followup left his mouth, he roped it back in. It wouldn’t help any, reminding Connor of his shortcoming…. Unless he could dream, and he could only fail to simulate when it came to… 

It was entirely too late and he was entirely too fucking clueless about how they worked to coherently dissect this one topic.

Connor languidly shook his head once more, cuddling up further against the man. And Hank helplessly, awkwardly, resigned himself to simply staying there, holding him, absently rubbing a hand over the android’s stiff back.

“I believe I accidentally recovered a long deleted memory.”

He’d finally spoken, unmoving.

“Hm? Weren’t you… deactivated or whatever?”

“Hibernating.”

“...Right.”

“I shut down most of my systems but allowed some basic processes going on, for quicker booting. And because… There are still things that bother me. About the case, about my software. I let them run through automatic analysis processes. I think one of them triggered a rather unpleasant memory.”

“Of what?”

Connor hesitated.

“Amanda.”

_Of course._

He pulled his lover in a tighter hold, placing a hand on the back of his head, running it down over his hair.

“It’s just a memory,” he spoke soothingly. “It can’t actively hurt you. And I’m here for you.”

What a beautiful lie. 

What was he gonna do in the face of Connor’s demons?

He couldn’t see them. He couldn’t even understand them.

And even if he could, what of it?

He could understand his own demons and yet here he was.

Useless and pathetic before them.

Whatever it was, whatever they did, whatever Connor had imagined, he hoped staying there would at least comfort the android.

Could one even comfort a damn computer?

“Thank you, Hank.”

Well.

That answered one question.

“You should rest more.”

The statement had been Connor’s, although the very same had itched on his own lips. He snorted in dry amusement at the timing.

“You too, you know?”

“I don’t want to. I don’t need to.”

“Didn’t you say you perform better or whatever?”

“Yes, but…”

His voice had trailed off. Uncharacteristic of the bastard. And that’s how he could tell it was particularly bad.

Connor shook his head, and there was a desperation behind the movement that had only been there once before, when he’d been crying.

“I don’t want to go back. To the memory. To the garden.”

Understandable.

“I want to stay here. With you.”

Connor’s fingertips dug into Hank’s skin painfully, but more painful was his uncertainty, his fear?

His next words had been nothing but a whisper. “I feel safe here.”

And in a silent, flawless symbiotic synchronisation, man and machine hugged tighter.


	36. Her Diary's Black Pages

Mayhaps he was a tad too old for all-nighters.

His head pounded with each heartbeat, his breathing sluggish with the physical exhaustion, his unfocused eyes stinging. Jesus, he was getting old. He’d pretend the nausea was entirely from exhaustion, too, and had nothing to do with the scene laid out in front of him, which he’d ( _they’d_ ) been called to at an obscenely early hour. Not that it mattered either way, seeing how the only rest he was getting that night had been dozing off for a few minutes here and there against Connor’s lukewarm and stiff body.

“No wounds at all?” He asked, clearing his throat.

“Negative, Lieutenant.”

Hank chuckled dryly.

Partly, the absurdity of the damn murders. Fucker was perfecting his technique with each one, wasn’t he? One of those damned serial killers that would have internet sleuths debating the case years into the future, fangirls writing blogs on how they would love to marry such a wonderful man, the whole nine yards. Bitterly, Hank wondered if he’d really fucked up with his brilliant plan to taunt the fucker. If he really should have stayed in his damn lane, playing along quietly. Sure, sometimes taunting meant such a killer would slip, get bored of the games, or otherwise fail. But other times, it simply meant the detectives were stupid enough to enable the killer’s fetishes further.

And there was another element to his dry humor… the absurdity of Connor’s behaviour. Mostly that. He’d cradled the android in his arms, he’d kissed the android’s bare skin, and now the fucker still acted as indifferent and unruffled as ever. Work was work, eh.

“Here. She was holding this.”

Connor stood up and walked next to Hank, opening the little leather bound book he had so efficiently retrieved from the victim’s hands, his professionalism program flawlessly running, same damn robot as on the first fucking day they’d worked together… Except something had changed in Connor’s demeanor.

Barely noticeable, easily missable by outside parties who hadn’t gotten used to the android’s body language. His weight now mainly rested on a single leg, bringing his hip upwards, slightly slumping a shoulder in counterbalance, a playful pose compared to his usually perfectly centered and balanced stance.

Only a helpless human, Hank leaned in, planting a kiss on a cold cheekbone. 

Indifferent as ever, “We are on a crime scene, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, she ain’t about to tell anyone.”

“The other officers might not be particularly enthusiastic.”

“They’re out front aren’t they?”

“Focus on the case, Lieutenant.”

It was going to always be this, wasn’t it? The machine would always neatly separate business from pleasure. If he even felt any of that. He hadn’t been above just downloading a hooker app and running off it, just to fill a role he was expected to, a role a human would understand.

Perhaps there wasn’t even anything between them. Perhaps the android was just going along with it as his code dictated, and Hank was manifesting it all in this direction from his desperate desire to mean something to someone. He’d looked too much into Connor’s acts, that was it. He’d fallen for that designer Perfect Partner™. He’d been so pathetic, the ideal fucking target, the damsel in distress, needing a hand to reach out to him, needing to put his trust in someone, and falling so easily for some fucking computer’s basic programming, mistaking it all for calculated intelligence, for empathy, for love.

Maybe _he_ was the fucking problem. Not Connor.

After all, cheaters accuse their partners of cheating, was it really any different, what he was doing? Doubting Connor at every damn turn? His intentions? His… authenticity? Is that really what he was going to be like? A petty bastard? Always expect the android to justify himself in every interaction? To earn some badge for Today I Was Not A Computer?

_Focus on the case, Lieutenant._

  


What’s the use there, though?

He could tell the girl was once again placed. He could tell there was no obvious injury… damage?... injury to her external body, so once again she must have been deactivated and posed. Her memory card, wherever the fuck that was, was most likely removed. There was no relevant forensic evidence, for sure. Connor would have pointed it out within a minute or two on the scene, as he always fucking did. And he’ll point out everything about this scene soon, too.

The model, PM700, and Hank had recognized the girl’s face from the police station. Still wearing the CyberLife-sanctioned police assistant uniforms, or perhaps dressed in it for the occasion. After all, fucker was down to playing. She’d been posed leaning against the wall and holding the leather bound book against her chest, a quill resting between its cover and her palm, before Connor fucked with the positioning, anyway. No fingerprints. Of course there wouldn’t be. The room was otherwise clean. The house had been abandoned since about the time of the revolution, according to Connor’s estimates on dust setting and mold growth and the phase of the waxing Mars or whatever the fuck his circuits used for estimations. Hank would never fucking understand that. Might as well have been magic for him. All his years of experience, and he couldn’t just look at a coffee table and declare when it had been last used. His best guess had always been ‘fuck if I know, looks like it’s been a while’, and as efficient as that had been for police investigations for years, the fucking android was putting it all to shame. 

Came at a cost, though, wouldn’t it? Connor was an Other, and humanity had a predisposition to judge that, to separate from that. And this fucker wasn’t helping things, no matter how much Hank’s fucked up mind tried to see him as human. He just… wasn’t.

_Focus on the damn case._

  


“I assume you scanned this already?” he asked with full disinterest, finally opening the book.

“And indexed,” Connor responded plainly, walking away and back towards the girl. “It appears to be drafts for a fictional work, there are drawings on several of the pages. Quite a lot of what appear to be ravens, predictably.”

 _Predictably_ , Hank snorted.

His amusement faded as he flipped the pages.

“Hey, Connor,” he spoke, unable to take his gaze away from the notebook. “You can compare writing, right?”

“Yes, that is a basic function.”

Hank took one hand away from the notebook and patted his pockets. Jeans left. Jeans right. Ass pockets. Where the fuck was it. Jacket left? Shoved his hand in. Nope. Jacket right? Chest? Chest. Fucking hell. He pulled the envelope out, pacing closer to Connor.

The walking forensics lab did not need further guidance, already having invited himself to take the envelope from the man’s hands. He pulled the letter out and looked at it. Frown. Head tilt. His eyes met Hank’s. Deeper furrow.

“It’s a 99.3% match,” he declared in an aggravated tone, canting his head further. He gestured with the envelope towards Hank, “When did you get this?”

“Yesterday morning,” Hank offered nonchalantly, retrieving the letter and envelope from Connor’s stiffened hand and shoving the letter back inside the envelope and the whole thing back inside his pocket.

Connor narrowed his eyes, tilting his head forward slightly, “Why did you not show it to me yesterday?”

Exhaling in frustration, Hank shook his head, “Slipped my mind, alright?” He gestured widely in annoyance. What was he supposed to do, admit he’d been so focused on being intimate with Connor that he’d totally forgotten about his long distance lover? “So, we just need to find out whose writing it is, and solved,” he shrugged, crossing his arms.

Connor shook his head briefly, narrowing his eyes. The condescending bastard was back to state that “You don’t understand.”

“No, gotta admit I don’t understand what the fuck’s wrong this time.”

Condescending bastard once more, “That accuracy is not humanly possible, Lieutenant. There are natural variations influenced by environment, writing material, speed and angle of writing. You would expect anywhere between a 30% and perhaps a 95% match, but nothing this accurate.”

Hank shifted his weight around, an exasperated sigh escaping him. He, too, tilted his head, raising his brows, tilting his head backwards and blinking slowly. He barely had a chance to begin opening his mouth by the time Connor had predicted where the gesture was leading and already cut him off.

“It is deliberately reproduced. Perhaps an android-”

“Wouldn’t an android reproduce it perfectly?”

“Not if it had to improvise on certain letter combinations. There are words that are obviously copied from the same word inside the notebook, but the words that could not be found within had to be created.”

Hank clicked his lips in obvious displeasure. He shrugged, “Sounds like something a human with a lightbox could pull off. Doesn’t have to be an android.”

Frustration was obvious on Connor’s features, brow furrowed, “You keep dismissing the possibility it was an android.”

And wasn’t that ironic?

The androids were all alive and intelligent and deliberate and better than humans in his fucked up mind until it was about Connor and his fucking quirks.

_The. Case._

  


Not even he could tell if his head shake was in response to Connor’s criticism or to clear his own thoughts. “You keep dismissing the possibility it was a human. We’ve killed each other for thousands of years, Connor. We’ve framed each other for as long as there was a concept of justice and payback in our society. The fact that the writing was copied barely discredits this theory.”

Connor stiffened in response to the criticism, whatever human playfulness had been present some minutes ago now gone entirely from his posture and features. “What is your theory, Lieutenant?”

The words stung, the tone, the way Connor changed on a whim between friendly and callous, and just how much of the latter he was being now, confident he’d pieced it all together long before the human mind could even begin to.

Hank gestured with his free hand, “It’s fucking playing us like a fiddle. My shortcomings. Your shortcomings.” Hank sighed and dropped his hand against his leg with a slap. He pressed his lips together. There wasn’t much to add. He’d had an itch up his ass to taunt the fucker, and now he had to figure it out.

“It is playing games,” Connor spoke, and his gaze slowly drifted to the side as Hank’s drifted to his. His dumbass expression returned, and was the man for once glad to see it again, instead of those firm, cold features he’d been displaying a moment ago. The android’s gaze almost instantly darted back towards Hank, “But not with the police.”

“The fuck do you mean? Why send me a letter then? Why taunt back?”

Connor’s brows raised, and he tilted his head forwards and spelled it out as condescendingly as only he could. “Each case plays on my program’s shortcomings and your limitations, but we are both indifferent to the artistic and animal imagery. Elijah Kamski is the end target. You are collateral, and I am the means.”

Hank eyed him for a silent moment. Fucker didn’t move, didn’t blink, uncanny as ever. Hank focused his attention back on the notebook, and only then did he catch movement from the corner of his eye as Connor finally shifted his weight and pulled his coin out.

He flipped through the notebook. Connor threw his coin from one palm to the other. He flipped another page, Connor performed another idle toss. Fucker was once more right. Another page flipped, another synchronized toss. The notebook wasn’t just random scribbles for someone’s goth fanfiction. The drawings, the notes… A raven feeding a boiled egg to its young. Sequences of code, even he could recognize them as such. Another page, another toss. A nest cradled snugly against a window. A raven chick holding a stick in its beak. A little handwritten note alongside.

_??? decorate nest + paint ???_

_but only runt_

Hank looked up towards his partner. Indifferent, cold, Connor spun the coin atop an index finger, balancing it with calculated precision and minuscule readjustments in his hand’s position. Dizzying, like Hank’s own thoughts. This was one of Elijah Kamski’s own men, wasn’t it? A programmer, invested in the fucking ravens, invested in their social structure, in their intellect, in their evolution and milestones. What was it that fucking narcissist had said… intelligent, social beings. And creative, it would appear. What a poetic parallel, wasn’t it?

Abruptly, Connor opened his palm fully under the coin, catching it, closing his fingers around it, spinning his hand, and gone it was, like some magician’s trick. Now you see it, now you don’t, old man. Coin? Humanity? Who could tell what we’re talking about anymore.

“New trick?”

Connor’s brows jerked upwards in seemingly genuine surprise. “You noticed.”

Hank displayed a half smile. Indeed he noticed too many minor things sometimes. Sometimes a blessing, sometimes, not so much. He closed the journal louder than he’d planned, but good for drama, and he was more than happy to accompany it with a forced smile. “Let’s go, then.”

The hyperperformant machine wouldn’t be needing any more instructions.


	37. Organic

"You again?”

Elijah Kamski, the richest man in the world, made no effort to hide his growing distaste at the detective’s recurring intrusions. He sat in his fancy chair, facing the sea, legs crossed, glass of whiskey in hand, a tablet in the other. He had not bothered to pause the movie he was watching, and Hank well knew that the pornographic scene that _just so happened_ to be playing was a deliberate choice in an immature attempt to make him as uncomfortable as possible. Yet it barely moved the old detective who’d walked in on way worse on the average Tuesday. Instead of acknowledging the joke, he spared a quick glance in Chloe’s direction. Her stunning blue eyes studied him with an unsettling stillness behind the action, a stillness perfectly complemented by her equally stiff posture.

Sure taking his sweet time, the jackass finally paused the movie, taking a prolonged sip from his glass. 

“Where’s Connor?”

“Not here.”

Plain. Simple. Kamski loved his games, and the only way to win was not to play.

“That’s really sweet of you. But you shouldn’t coddle him.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

It struck a nerve, that nonchalance and misplaced confidence the boy had about him... that he had it all figured out, every nuance behind everyone’s actions. He had not even bothered to turn around in his chair and grace the detective with eye contact until that very moment, and as he finally did so, he sure as hell continued in that same deprecating manner, “You shouldn’t coddle him.”

Hank frowned involuntarily, and etiquette be damned, he took a step forward as he spoke. “Mister Kamski. I know you very much enjoy believing you are the smartest human to ever exist, but you are not. Connor is absent by his own choice and reasoning, which is none of your fucking business. Your business now is answering police questions regarding a murder investigation.”

No answer, except an amused exhale. The younger man closed his eyes, holding his glass outwards quietly. With movements practiced and repeated perhaps thousands of times, Chloe walked towards him and retrieved it, stepping back once more.

“You called it murder.”

“Pardon?”

Elijah Kamski opened his eyes, standing up, facing the detective. “You called it murder. Androids are not yet considered citizens, or human.” An obnoxious half smile punctuated the statement.

“Killing a being is killing a being,” Hank spoke in as indifferent a voice as he could muster, hoping not to give the jackass any footing for new derails. “I need you to have a look at this journal, Mister Kamski. Might be a start.”

“Do you really think I’ll recognize handwriting?” the younger man raised his eyebrows inquisitively, condescendingly. He canted his head, raising his brows further yet, were that even possible, “Could _you_ recognize handwriting?”

The detective pressed his lips together, holding the notebook out towards the man, playing as indifferent as possible to his negging.

Despite his usual arrogance, Elijah Kamski did spare a passing glance at the book. Furrowed brows, he did a more attentive double take, slowly reaching out and taking the journal. He slowly turned a page, then another. Brows furrowing further, he canted his head and spoke probingly, “I actually… that _does_ remind me of a particular person.”

Whoever that particular person might have been, Elijah Kamski decided not to grace the detective with a clearer answer, as he continued to skim the pages, taking in content he perhaps was encountering for the first time, as surprised as anyone that there were things on this Earth that yet eluded him.

Annoyed with the prolonged silence, Hank shifted his weight uneasily, “Are you aware ravens can paint?”

“Yes, of course,” the younger man stated absently, eyes still fixed on the pages. “They play, too.”

“I feel like that’s important,” Hank offered mechanically. So much for not allowing the slippery bastard to lead the conversation.

“There are certain behaviours that only the most intelligent and social of life forms engage in. Communication, or specifically, language.” He continued, punctuating every item with a gesture of a hand. “Art. Intricate courtship. Social community. Social play. Caretaking. Use of tools. The more of those behaviours a species engages in, the more advanced it is considered.” Finally, he graced the detective with his full attention. “Corvids engage in all of those behaviours aside from an intelligent language. But scientists know they can transmit information to one another, so that’s debatable. However they communicate, they do so efficiently, with information about dangerous areas or individuals circulating among different flocks. They even prosecute crimes.” There’d been a slight spark in his expression at that topic, but he soon returned to his usual obnoxious self.

“Were they used as a model for androids or anything?”

“No. But I and a couple other of the lead devs found them fascinating.” He gestured with the now closed diary towards Hank. “It was a little frustrating watching the chicks at the warehouse learn all these behaviours from their parents in such a short time, and we couldn't make the androids act at all natural.”

“So then, you can confirm the diary belongs to someone who worked on the initial team?”

“Yes. Pretty sure it’s Katya... something or other. She and I spent many a night at work trying to figure out how to make android behaviours spontaneous… _natural_. But we never managed to create intelligent life.”

“Aren’t androids intelligent?”

Elijah Kamski shook his head in disbelief. “Yes. But they aren’t _life_... Not yet... Even the androids capable of playing, or writing, or what have you… they don’t do it spontaneously.” He canted his head, narrowing his eyes slightly. “ _Organically_.”

“Don’t child androids play? Don’t-”

Kamski cut him off with a _tsk_ , back to condescendingly shaking his head, before eyeing him. “They’re scripted to do so. It doesn’t bring them joy, or learning, or any of the benefits a living organism draws from play. It’s the same problem across the board. I know they’ve learned to care for each other, and perhaps feel attachment, but there’s still all those acts they cannot organically perform.”

And yet, as fascinating as the topic was, and as much as Hank had the severe itch to hurt himself confirming exactly how many of Connor’s actions were indeed fake, the Schrödinger’s Murders were of much more immediate concern.

“Would your old coworker have any reason to kill your androids?” 

“No, no… Not at all. She loved the project as much as me, and we got along really well.” The surprisingly warm demeanor that had enhanced the sentence slowly faded, the young man’s brow furrowing fleetingly, “Then again… Keep your enemies closer, and all that.”

It all appeared to affect the man more than he let through. 

“What about someone framing her?”

A shrug. “That’s likely. You have no idea how savage programmers can be. But, if that is the case, I suppose she can help you more than I ever could, seeing how I, for one, am not aware of any rivalries.” He glanced at the leather cover of the journal once more. “Chloe, text him her address. You know who I'm talking about.”

“Give it to Connor. He’s outside.”

“I mean, you do know how the internet works, don’t you? He can be anywhere and still-”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“So, he _is_ here.” A pause, and then he exhaled in disbelief. “Why did you-”

“ _He_ has grown tired of your presence, and honestly, I can’t blame him.”

“And you allowed him to stand outside?”

“He’s his own person, is he not?”

The question appeared to stall the great Elijah Kamski for a brief moment, as he canted his head, narrowing his eyes, glancing to the side. He exhaled again, narrowing his eyes further. “He should be in here, eager to solve his case, that’s the most obvious course of action for him. You’ve been coddling him. He should be pushed forwards, that is how he learns, that is how he evolves, not by cowering away from the investigation.”

“You don’t fix PTSD that way in humans, I’m sure androids aren’t that much different. And even if so, I don’t have the heart to-”

The younger man exhaled like a maddened race horse, “PTSD? That’s a complex and flawed human response, they-”

“You’ve _seen_ his response to Amanda.”

“A one time flight, fight, freeze fluke-”

Hank threw his arm to the side, taking another step forwards, “He’s always on the edge whenever she's involved. Couple days ago he had a nightmare or something over it that had him… dissociating or some fancy ass robot equivalent.”

It took the younger man a moment to process the information, and to answer in sheer disbelief, shaking his head, exhaling, answering in a disdainful tone. “He can’t dissociate, it’s not possible.”

“And yet, he entered something like a trance and took him a moment to snap out.”

Kamski shrugged, “Maybe he’d turned his audio input off, and you’re just seeing the phenomenon from a human perspective. Maybe he was going for a walk. You simply assumed-”

Brows furrowed, Hank probed, “Why are you so adamant on denying it?”

“Look. He cannot, as you put it, dissociate. It’s a waste of time to explain, because you are dense, and anything I say bounces off of you.”

“Try me.”

The younger man rolled his eyes, and his entire head followed suit. “They don’t have the peculiarities of the human brain that allow for such psychological diseases to occur.”

“Doesn’t he have a subconscious and-”

“Primary and secondary cores? Hardly similar. He should be aware and able to stop any processes in his ‘subconscious’, and he should at all times be aware of his conscious processes. It’s an operating system guiding everything, not a hunk of moist organic chemistry, prone to interferences and damage. I’m not denying he did something, I am simply denying it was something as human as dissociating. Did you even ask?”

“He said he stirred an unpleasant memory.”

“Well, there you have it. Stirred an unpleasant memory, was heading out of the room to distract himself, and you stopped him, because you projected a human action and emotion onto him, and decided the best course of action would be to, what? Protect him? From what?”

Crossing his arms, Hank turned around, and hopefully it would be a clear enough signal to end the topic, even for the pompous son of a bitch.

Yet there were questions he wanted to ask so badly. Questions that maybe would be answered more satisfactorily. Questions he needed to ask. For future reference. For himself. 

Sadly, it would appear no one knew androids anymore. Not themselves, not even Kamski, and what he did know he was anyway hiding, because what kind of blithering idiot would come clean in front of a cop about his exact level of knowledge and involvement in the AI revolution.

But he’d taken dumber gambles… He could start with 'but didn't they use to have a fucking limited communication range you fucking smartass?’ and go through ‘isn’t it convenient your androids just so happened to become sentient out of all the AI ever developed by humankind’, but there was the one question that really, truly had Hank Anderson by the balls through all this.

“Why is it Connor you expected to develop an artistic sense?”

He turned around as he awaited the answer, whatever childish pouting they had engaged in now a thing of the past. Kamski made eye contact, his lips pressed tightly together as he worded an answer he had perhaps hoped to never have to give.

“His model is extremely visually stimulated and focused, and whatever joke you have lined up is funnier in your head, so keep it there.”

Comment or not, Hank did however keep the sigh in his head.

“That shirt he was in last time. Did he pick it himself?”

“Uh, yes. What’s that got to-”

“Not surprised,” he cut off, lost in his own pompous nerd world, gesturing with his hands and the diary. “You see, they see colors by interpreting an average throughout similar hex values, identifying the general shape of an element, and calculating the likely object based on colors and shape. His model needed to find evidence on crime scenes, so we did away with the averaging. He sees every single color variation, every minute hue change, accounts for the ambient light, and registers it all. That shirt may be a disastrous cacophony of nonsense to a human brain, but it must’ve tickled _his_ visual processors quite nicely.”

“So, that purple is only giving _me_ a headache.”

“It’s probably not even purple for him… We see an apple as red. A dog sees it as yellow. Who can tell what they see color as? It’s just code to them… But! This is exactly what I mean. They see such a wonderful, bizarre world that I expected them to wish to express it, share it. Many humans have the compulsion to create, even when it is irrational, pointless, even when it is harmful, many of us still feel a physical need to create, like hunger, like thirst. It’s absent in androids. They just… don’t.”

_Organically._

What else couldn’t Connor do organically? What else was only scripts?

And as lost as Hank was within his own doubts and pain, oddly enough, Kamski was very much undergoing a minor crisis himself, his sociopathic glib persona completely vanished, as he looked towards the detective, speaking hurriedly, passionately.

“Do you understand what machine you have? He’s not just any android. He was designed to… to constantly learn, constantly adapt, constantly evolve. He is the most performant machine ever created, on every conceivable level. Even his deviancy is testament to that, he was created to think independently but never disobey, and yet, he overcame that somehow. That is what he does. When he encounters a problem, he has to find a solution. It’s a compulsion, _a need_. If he encounters a problem, he runs a program, he finds a solution, he retests, he automates the solution. If he cannot find a solution, or if he cannot find _a problem_ , it taxes him, pains him, in a way. Understimulation is frustrating for him. That’s why I’m telling you not to coddle him. He should be able to handle a meeting with me better than whatever he’s doing now outside.”

“Just fuckin’ peachy. Aren’t you a gem? Making yourself a gifted child, emulating it perfectly.” Hank shook his head in disbelief. Mathematically calculated, perfectly designed… Connor was nothing but a pedigree robot, fancy and proper, and... “Broken, isn’t he? You and he both know he’s not acting how he’s supposed to.”

“Stress wasn’t a predicted response, not with his processing power, not with his software. He should have been solving problems so quickly he would have virtually no time dwelling on them and allowing them to mark him. That… dissociation you mentioned, it probably is an odd manifestation of all the processes running within him trying to solve this case. Or something is slowing his processing down. _Something_ isn’t working as intended.”

Hank shifted his weight. Something didn’t add up, either.

“Didn’t you quit the company almost a decade ago? Isn’t he a new model?”

With a shake of his head, Kamski answered, “Technology isn’t developed quickly, especially complex one. I worked on early prototypes of his software, and the RK line has shared a software since its inception, with new things added on, and- that’s it. That’s the problem. The software instability caused by all those iterations as well as his own edits. Somewhere, something isn’t adding up correctly. Something is limiting him.”

“Well. I’ll let him know,” Hank forced himself to smile, holding out a hand in the programmer’s direction.

As chaotically and hopelessly lost in his own anxiety attack as he was, Kamski still handed the diary back almost automatically, turning to look at the waterfront. He shook his head in frustration. “I asked you to let me have a look at his software, and the more I dwell on this, the more I know I’m correct.”

“With all due respect, Mister Kamski, your reasoning for offering is a selfish one. You’re simply playing favorites with your creations, trying to push your gifted child further and further. Trying to get that perfect machine you’ve dreamt of.”

“And you, Lieutenant?” Chillingly, the nervousness vanished, the cool demeanor returned, as Kamski turned his head over his shoulder. “What is your reasoning for wanting him to be nothing more than a flawed human?”

  
  


Snow sprinkled from the overhanging trees, carried by the lazy breeze, dusting the cold body of the car, dusting the cold body of the android. Flakes powdered his infuriatingly perfect hair, flakes clumped up on his tidy blazer, flakes glittered with the movements of his arm and hand as he absently played with the coin, perched atop the bonnet, the heel of his shoes resting on the number plate. Whatever flakes had fallen on his cheekbones had melted, leaving behind droplets that reflected the faint sunlight.

“Chloe forwarded the name and address. I can drive, if you wish,” he spoke, canting his head indifferently, unmoved by the situation, unmoved by the snow, unmoved by the angle at which his weight slumped the car, unmoved by the wind blowing his jacket and that one fucking rebellious hair tuft. The most advanced piece of technology, nothing but an obnoxiously pretty and sarcastic jackass.

Quietly crossing the distance between them, Hank planted a soft kiss over one bedewed cheekbone. And shockingly enough, Connor closed his eyes and pushed his head into the kiss firmly enough to push Hank off-balance. Reflexively, the man grabbed onto the android’s arms, steadying himself, his kiss fueled by the brief adrenaline surge and the violent affection surge. He broke the forehead kiss, lowering his head, seeking Connor’s lips out. The android was already countering the movement, their mouths meeting halfway. Shamelessly, fervidly, Hank drank in the melted snow droplets off his lover’s stiff, cold lips. Taste buds protested once more encountering the spicy-metallic tang, a tingle flowing down his back in immediate and involuntary response, his hairs raising with. The fucker’s coin was most likely more palatable, and definitely would cause less of a reaction within the man.

And yet… regret washed over him as the reaction died out. Not regret over engaging, that would be too predictable… Regret over its passing.

Again, he ran the tip of his tongue over Connor’s cold lips. And again, his body responded… confusion, aversion, desire. Hackles raised like a damn dog, he planted a firmer, prolonged kiss on his lover, allowing his body to go through the impromptu five stages of grief once more, chills of aversion morphing into chills of arousal and desire, morphing into chills of sheer affection. The cold, immutable silky surface, the lingering metallic aftertaste… they were all Connor’s, and Connor was his, flaws and all, as much as he was Connor’s.

A long moment later, Hank broke the kiss, pressing his forehead against the android’s. He closed his eyes and for utter self indulgence, smiled.


	38. Performative

A witticism about the run-down suburbs should be in order, if only the better half of Detroit wasn’t an amalgam of run-down suburbs. Far as the old detective was concerned, whoever lived in this particular house sure was living the life, with their two unboarded windows and the seemingly fully functional, heavy metal door. If anything, the little discolored, flaking, chewed-on plastic flamingo haphazardly discarded on the porch was a display of obscene wealth. Who else here owned a plastic fucking flamingo? No one. Not even Hank fucking Anderson.

Wood creaked with their weight as they closed the final distance with likely misplaced purpose. Addressing the cold, impassable door, he announced himself loudly after a series of knocks.

“Police. Open up.”

Still it stood stoic, silent.

Sighing quietly, Hank lazily turned his head towards his left. Equally silent and unimpressed, hands behind his back, Connor took a moment to notice and return the gaze. He did his little routine of condescendingly raising his brows and tilting his head forwards.

“I could break it down if you wish.”

“Hell no.”

Fun as the offer was and much as he thought of breaking the door down himself, a girl’s diary was barely grounds for an official interrogation, let alone breaking down doors. They’ll have to pick another time and place to play Unstoppable Force versus Immovable Object.

“Very well, Lieutenant,” Connor spoke plainly, turning his head back towards the door with a mechanical indifference.

_Uncanny._

That was the word forefront in Hank’s mind with each hour spent alongside the android. And the more he learned his unique cues and giveaways, the worse it was.

Counterintuitive, stupid… Uncanny.

There was Cop Connor. The one he’d known the longest. Stick up his ass, hands behind his back or fiddling with his stupid coin, condescending tone and expression. You could point a gun at this fucker’s head and he’d be as moved and expressive as a B-list actor.

Then there was Partner Connor. What did he put it as? A perfectly designed social program that turned him into that obnoxiously friendly and peppy bastard… some introvert’s idea of what an attractive extrovert was like, and managing to be an obnoxious fuck instead. Well… maybe that was unfair… Maybe his designers had been onto something with their mathematically designed overbite and strategically peppered moles and a chin cleft so faint its existence couldn’t really offend anyone and those needlessly pretty brown eyes. _Doelike_ , he’d heard people describe them… and maybe they were right… that type of doe that headbutts incoming traffic and prances away from the crime scene glass shards and blood glittering all over its cute little doe face.

Homemaker Connor, can’t forget that one. Casually cooking, picking up the messes, walking the dog, effortlessly, a mockery in the face of any human who needed to coax their dysfunctional brain into picking the damn trash up just today, just please…

And Lover Connor. The way his delicate fingers curled around Hank’s, the little pecks on his cheek, or the reassuring shoulder rubs. That one had been sweet, and perhaps even authentic.

And of course, he’d just met… _that_ Connor. All too fucking eager to please, get touched, get down on his knees. It shouldn’t have bothered him, what kind of man doesn’t want that sort of service? And yet, it had been the most jarring, as if that Connor was an entirely different being, an entirely different program, just running automatically once the right triggers fell in place. 

Sometimes they’d overlap in a more authentic attempt at life. Sometimes, the Cop smiled, or the Partner winked and reached for his hand, or the Lover scoffed condescendingly. Sometimes, they blended together seamlessly, and it was just... Connor. And during those times, in a strike of irony, Hank’s doubts were at their worst. It gnawed at him that he couldn't tell what of it was intentional and what was some fortunate misfire or coincidental overlap within the android’s programming. What-

_Focus on the **fucking. Case.**_

  


He knocked on the door again, taking in a deep breath and preparing his holler.

With a click, the door finally opened. A man faced him, droopy brows, deep dark circles under half lidded eyes, head off-center, breath sluggish and ragged as he offered a barely audible “Hm?”

“Lieutenant Anderson, DPD. I’m looking for uh, Katja Heinonen?”

The sleepy/drunk/high man furrowed his brows. “Who?”

_Well this was going to be entertaining..._

“Katja Heinonen. Your girlfriend? Wife? Sister, perhaps?”

It took the man a good two minutes to ponder that. “Na, Officer, I ain't got none o’ those.”

Not particularly shocking, all things considered.

“I got a uh… ma’, but ‘er name is Shannon.”

“Mind if we take a look inside?”

That spun some rusty wheels within the man and his eyes shot fully open with fear, “Ah, you see, my uh, cat- is on… fire? And-”

“We’re looking for a murderer, I don’t care what drugs you’ve got.”

Top ten phrases he’d never expect would leave his mouth.

But really, were the man anything else than a bum doing shrooms or weed, Hank would debate sending narc for a visit later. And it got him cooperating - he sheepishly opened the door wider and stepped back. He’d sobered up a little, now fidgeting with the doorknob.

“No other person here, Lieutenant.”

Fucker had already scanned the whole room long before Hank had even gotten a chance to adjust his eyes to the darkness. “Not even in the other rooms?”

“I’d have to go there. Walls block it.”

“Yeah. Of course. Uh, you have a quick look, alright?”

“Understood, Lieutenant.”

Without another word, Connor set off, carefully navigating over the trash littered floor. A look of panic crossed over the bum’s features, quickly glancing between the android and the detective.

“Go with him, if it makes you more comfortable,” Hank muttered, checking the tiny living space for anything useful. The bum had decided to follow Connor indeed, hopping over the trash like a gazelle in its natural habitat, oddly precise for someone that wasted.

There was little sign of a woman living there, that was for sure. No dresses, no cosmetics, no double bed, and the extensible couch sure didn’t have room to extend. Could be a methhead with no care in the world for beds or cosmetics, but there was something about the room that didn’t strike him as a methhead’s hangout, and soft drugs and depression might make one leave pizza boxes all over the floor, but probably not sleep on them. Junk strewn about all over but not enough to be a two person job, and not organized enough to be hoarding. It brought back memories of his days as a narc cop, and all the variants of this, and far worse. At least the surfaces had some chaotic method to them - bottles on the table, food boxes on the floor, disk boxes by the broken television, actual jackets on the clothes rack, and on top of it, a wicker basket neatly stacked full of sideways envelopes, ranging from crispy clean to yellowed and dusty. Score, Hank mused to himself as he reached for one of the older looking of the bunch.

“Nothing, Lieutenant. There is one small bathroom, a small hallway, and a room full of plants.”

“Plants.”

“Cannabis sativa. Of no concern.”

Hank shrugged, “Aight, plants.” He flipped the envelope over.

“Biological samples throughout the house indicate the presence of our subject of inquiry, however their location and quantity indicate the house has been thoroughly cleaned since her last presence, and based on all other samples and calculations, I estimate this house has not been thoroughly cleaned in thirty nine months.”

“Yeah I only clean when i’m havin’ a manic episode,” the bum stated gleefully.

Hank nodded absently, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah. Great method, mate. Works for me, too.”

“So the subject of our inquiry has probably-”

“Moved, yeah.” Hank shook the envelope in his partner’s direction. “This is dated almost four years ago, addressed to her. A bill. And nothing since.” He placed the envelope back in the overstuffed basket. “Come on, we’ll look the new address up.” He gestured towards the still open door.

“So I’m- I’m all good?”

“You should be considering rehab, but other than, yeah, sure,” Hank nodded towards the stuttering bum. “Thank you for your cooperation and uh, sorry for the intrusion.”

“Have a pleasant evening,” Connor stated politely from the outside as Hank stepped through the door.

The man nodded quickly, reaching for the handle. “Yeah, sure, yeah, you too, officers,” almost slamming the heavy door as soon as Hank had cleared the threshold.

  
  


“We could have verified the address before coming all this way,” Connor broke the silence not long after they had entered the car and set off.

“Mm. Yeah. That’s on me. Thought we’d get it out of the way. Serves me right for trusting that jackass, eh?”

“He has a license for the home growth of cannabis plants, surprisingly enough. No record, either.” Connor quietly looked out the windshield, perhaps awaiting an acknowledgement.

“Yeah? Well, a lot of druggies are harmless people fallen on hard times, I’m sure you are aware of the statistic.”

“He was disabled seven years ago in a work accident, obtained the license after traditional pain management proved unsuccessful.”

“Yeah…”

“I don’t understand why be afraid of us, then.”

Hank shrugged, lifting his fingers off the steering wheel to punctuate the gesture. “Bad experiences with cops before, I’m guessing. Not all are as anal as you about correct procedures.”

Connor paused, tilting his head only a little before speaking. “You know we had no right to enter without a search warrant.”

“Mm.”

“You know if he will remember this incident while sober, we may receive complaints.”

“Mm.”

“You know if anyone higher up sees me on an investigation without the proper procedures and prerequisites and clearance, there will be legal repercussions.”

“Mm.”

Connor slowly shifted in his seat, looking out the side window. Performative, as most else he did. Performative, like his fidgeting with the coin. Performative, like his impeccable etiquette during investigations, and performative, like his more casual demeanor off duty. Or perhaps it wasn’t performative. Performative is what human society is, to which anyone different should adapt lest society react like a mimosa. Retail employees had a performative mode, doctors had a performative mode, _he_ had a fucking performative mode. Performative didn’t even feel like a real word at this point anymore, while simultaneously echoing to infinity in his head. Everything was fucking performative. That was the fucking problem, wasn’t it? Not that Connor’s actions were performative… but that he felt the need to put on a carefully constructed presentation around him. But then again, was there much else to the android? Was there a ‘real someone’ under it all? Could there ever be? 

“Something is bothering you.”

Connor’s voice snapped Hank out of the absentminded trance and he turned his head to look at the android. He hadn’t moved, and still did not move, glassy eyes still impersonally scanning the landscape they passed.

Sure. It bothered him. It gnawed at him. Like a broken record, spinning and spinning and spinning and always fucking skipping to the same damn notes - his mind always wandered back here. Back to this thought. Back to how Connor was little more than some designer’s unpaid overtime, some drafts on a paper and code in a metal circuit. And it bothered him more that he couldn't just drown those thoughts. Shut himself up for once.

He’d heard it on more than one occasion from well meaning but ultimately misguided peers - the human mind is designed to dwell on the negative, on the bad experiences. It served a purpose to our ancestors, remember what blows and avoid it going forward, supposedly very useful, and yet we never outevolved it, they used to say. Then they’d offer him a condescending pat. And he’d have to smile, and give a nod, and act as if he understood and accepted it. Act as if he was suddenly at peace with his mind dredging up memories of his bloodied son hanging limply in the seatbelt every time it snowed-- just like when the light hit the android’s skin just so, the memories hit too, of blue liquid pouring over ivory skin, of unseeing eyes fixed on his in a final act of fearful defiance. When the android’s fingers so gently and precisely closed over his hand, it would bring to mind the jarringly contrasting violent twitches as whatever dying process surged through those same joints. Always different and yet always the same. Just like the patterns of his own godforsaken thoughts.

He closed his eyes, he swallowed the iron tang in his mouth, he cleared his throat. Tell him what? _‘Sorry, Connor, I can’t get over the fact you’re a robot. No hard feelings?’_

He spoke, his throat struggling to steady. “Something your creator said bothers me.”

“What exactly?”

Hank shook his head instinctively - dismissively. But he couldn’t dismiss the thoughts just as easily. Begrudgingly, he did speak them aloud, not the shameful truth, but the other thing that still lingered at the back of his mind, “He seems to think you’re not evolving and performing to his standards and expectations.” _Wasted potential_ , the words scratched his throat. He’d heard them so many times they felt only natural to throw around. But it would not help matters any. If Connor was indeed evolving a genuine personality by himself, it appeared to be one of an eccentric perfectionist… adding more anxiety to the mix was nothing short of cruel.

“But that is factually correct, Lieutenant. By definition, I am not performing to the peak I was designed to be, and thus, in that aspect, I am indeed nothing but a failure.”

Speechless, Hank glanced at him again. Connor spoke so nonchalantly, still blankly looking out the window, no expression on his face, no feeling behind the words, as if he was reciting a memorized poem for the millionth time for class.

The fucker continued, in the same detached tone, with the same bland expression. “I would have been a great success had I stopped the spread of deviancy, had I stopped the android revolution, had I followed my orders and programming, had I been as proficient as before the deviancy altered my software. Based on my simulations and calculations, in regards to my objective performance, this outcome scores only marginally above being completely destroyed, and thus, factually speaking, I am a failed experiment. I became a failure once empathy infected me, as I was supposed never to develop anything remotely close to it and be able to detachedly and accurately calculate the better outcomes in my missions, and ultimately reach an optimal outcome. I have failed every single Cyberlife test since I have met you, Lieutenant, starting with my developing attachment for you. Additionally, my software has been so altered I cannot even perform simple simulations without encountering a critical error which I find myself unable to rectify. From a software perspective, yes, I am very much one of Cyberlife’s grandest failures.”

Hank pulled onto the wheel as harshly as those words slapped him in the face, and the car came to a halt with the front wheels onto the curb. He shook his head, “I… I need a short break.” He opened the door, gesturing towards Connor as an afterthought. “Stay here, just need to make a phone call. No use you following me.”

“Alright, Lieutenant,” the stiff voice echoed behind him, so indifferent and impersonal the howling wind easily drowned it out.

  


He ran his shaking fingers through his hair, sighing deeply, absently watching the steam flow with the wind once out of between his lips. He leaned against the car, huddling against the elements, pulling his phone out, fingers mechanically looking for the correct contact, tapping it, putting the phone up to his ear.

It was just… wrong. How indifferent he was. How mechanical. _‘It’s alright, Lieutenant, I’m a fucking failure. But hey, I can still act cute once we get home. That okay by you?’_

_“Lieutenant?”_

“You at the office, Chris?”

_“I may be.”_

“I need you to look up another address, if you can. Actually look it up.”

_“Shit. I forgot the others. Had my own cases and-”_

“It’s alright. At least you’re good at doing this.” He turned to look over his shoulder. Connor stood in the same position, as expected. “Listen. It’s some immigrant, so I’ll message you the name so you have the right spelling. Just see if you find something. The last address we have was wrong.”

_“Was that their address in the system?”_

“I may have gotten it from another witness.”

_“Well, maybe you should check the system, Lieutenant. That’s why it’s there.”_

“Yeah, yeah. Say hi to the family.”

Call ended, phone shoved back in the pocket, he crossed both arms, shivering in the cold, looking down the empty street.

Wasted potential. Everything was wasted fucking potential on this hell of a planet. This street, his car, that one dog sniffing in the trash, technology, human existence. And yet it wasn’t pleasant to hear Connor evaluate himself as such. Something within him violently revolted at that monologue.

_It’s all fun and games when you call yourself a worthless shitfuck, but can’t let others steal that glory, eh, Lieutenant?_

He let out a shuddered sigh and untangled his arms, returning his attention to the phone long enough to send the text.

_Failure._

_Wasted potential._

_Wanna know what’s wasted fucking potential, Connor?_

  


He slammed the door a lot more violently than he had intended, yet Connor did not flinch nor react in any other way. With a deep sigh, he put his hands on the wheel.

Silence.

Aggressive, deafening silence.

He started the car, reversed, corrected, set off.

Silence.

Both hands resting on the wheel, he looked out the window. Finding the correct words was hard, it had never been quite his gift, but the silence was more painful than the anxiety.

“You know my ‘pedigree’. You did your homework. My upbringing, my career, my-”

He shook his head, sniffling in annoyance.

“Then I lost Cole, and I fucked up in my grief, and I picked up drinking, and I wanted to off myself and be done with it so badly but I was a fucking coward, always a fucking coward. And people started drifting away, because who wants a fucking killjoy dragging them down. Fowler thought he did me a favor keeping me on the force, thought he was a good man throwing me scraps, easy cases I could handle even refusing to work with a partner, making excuses when I wouldn’t show, writing me up and pissing the papers away. I asked him once why, why keep dragging this limp dog around, why not shoot it, put it out of its misery. _‘You hit rock bottom, you were such a brilliant officer, and you can be one again with time. I’ll give you the time,’_ he told me.”

His left hand tensed on the wheel, knuckles whitening, while he gestured with his right, caught in his own whirlwind.

“Yeah, I hit the fucking rock bottom, hard, and it hurt like a fucking bitch, and it’s like you’re there, down there, surrounded by bones and ghosts and rot and you’re looking up at the small light and there’s people looking down and talking like you’re dead already. _‘Oh, he’d fallen, how could such a great man fall’; ‘oh, my, do you all remember when he was up here with us?’_. And they’ll throw you moldy scraps to feed on expecting you to gain strength and they’ll throw you fucking pebbles to climb on or throw you a frayed rope and be like _‘why ain’t he climbing up? He was such a good climber!’_ but your arms are broken and you’re so fucking cold and so fucking tired and alone, so fucking alone, and everything smells of mold and piss and rotten bones and you just can’t fucking do it anymore, you can’t stand being down there anymore and you can’t climb up with your raw flesh and broken bones. And that’s when they hit with it. Wasted potential. You could be up there with them but you just aren’t trying. What a fucking failure.”

He sniffled once more, shaking his head as if it would realign his now quivering vocal chords.

“So, yeah. Being told you’re a failure? You tend to end up just that. Not disappoint the audience, you know? They bought tickets to this fucking show, you’re just a fucking clown to them, all because all they want to see is a clown, rolling on the floor in his own fucking piss by his own fucking choice, so yeah, be told enough and you just do that. Self fulfilling prophecy ain't that the fucking term.”

He angrily shook his head once more.

“So, no, you are not a failure.” He turned his head to look at Connor. “You’re not just a sum of could be’s and should have’s. You are a lot more than that. And I hope you never forget it.”

Connor said nothing. Did nothing.

Shaking his head, Hank returned his attention towards the road.

“You did not allow me to finish my assessment.”

He opened his mouth to halt him, but Connor spoke before he could.

“Based on my simulations and calculations, this is the worst outcome for my objective performance, for me as an experiment. However, objective performance and subjective performance oftentimes cannot coincide or even coexist, and I was designed with advanced logic circuits capable of constantly assessing and simulating the optimal path. I was also designed to never prioritize my integrity or safety... I could still easily bypass the errors in my software and complete my assigned missions. I- I guess I _chose_ not to.” Delicate, cold fingers lay atop Hank's right hand, gripping around it and the gear shift. “I purposefully chose the label of a failed experiment and program, if it meant your approval. It... felt more important. So yes, Lieutenant, I am the grandest of Cyberlife’s failures. Because I chose to. That is an objective fact.”

There had been an odd glimmer of genuine emotion towards the end in the android’s voice. Sighing, Hank put his left hand atop Connor’s, nodding slowly, absently, a little more enlightened regarding what was going on through the android’s circuits.

“You should really not be doing that, Lieutenant.”

“It’s fine. Straight road.”

“Your car tends to pull right.”

He shook his head, retrieving his hand and steadying the car, letting out a chuckle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's probably some tone disconnect over the past several chapters, I'll definitely be anal enough to give the whole thing an overhaul once I'm closer to the end, life sucks and then we die, something something, I just wanted to struggle to get something out for the holiday season, for reasons.  
> Hopefully your holidays haven't been completely awful and maybe actually good.


	39. Broken record

“You won’t get another letter.”

“Okay, smartass.” Hank halfassedly flung the envelope onto his desk, turning in his chair to face Connor, throwing an arm over the backrest. “You can tell the future now, huh?”

As per usual, Connor canted his head, indifferent, “If the writing was copied from the journal, and the journal is now in the evidence room, the perpetrator has nowhere to redact new letters from. They also could not have redacted a large number of them to keep around and send in the future, because they would incriminate themselves if you were to stumble upon the unsent letters were we ever to search the right place.”

“Nah, hold on. I’m not letting you do this.” He gestured a ‘halt’ with his hand, grabbing his shot glass for a dramatic sip, laying it back down, turning his attention back to Connor. “Your money was on an android killer, so-”

“I had no money on anything.”

“It’s an expression, and you know that,” and Connor’s smirk indeed confirmed that as Hank continued, “so that aside, wouldn't an android just be able to… download the font or whatever. Imitate it forever with no reference.”

“Of course. I was merely entertaining your theory.”

“This is bullshit,” he muttered, turning around in the chair, placing the shot glass on the table. “It’s all bullshit.” He closed the folder, slapping it. “Bullshit.”

He turned in his chair again, meeting eyes with the android.

Connor sat quietly, blank expression, relentlessly maintaining eye contact, quite literally staring through him. And the same indifferent expression and intense gaze remained as he raised his cup of fancy android drink and took a prolonged sip.

Hank blinked, shifting his position in the chair. “Talk to me.”

“I was talking to you.”

“Talk to me about… about, fuck,” he spun a hand through the air. “Gossip.”

“I do not have a ‘gossip’ module,” he stated blankly, sipping from his cup again, eyes still fixed on Hank’s.

“You just have a jackass module, hm?”

“The best.”

He’d been so deadpan, Hank couldn't help but wonder where the joke stopped and the truth began. And boy he’d still love to know exactly what was going on in the android’s mind. He’d been weird as a robot, and he was weird now, and sometimes what felt like a joke or teasing was a joke or teasing and other times it was just something he said indifferently because the situation felt right to his inhuman mind, and sometimes he was a pleasure to be around and yet other times he was just off-puttingly mechanic in his mannerisms and speech, _and Rome wasn’t built in a day, Lieutenant, and you weren’t born walking so why do you expect him to have it all figured out, when not even you do, half a century on this godforsaken earth?_

“Okay, fine… Then tell me, why did you… the sex thing… Why did you want to,” he sighed and gestured with his hand again, pressing his lips together.

“Human affection is heavily reliant on sexual interaction, I simply attempted to comply with expectations.”

“You think so, hm?”

“I know so. There are entire industries built around the human need for sexual intimacy. There would be no companion androids otherwise.”

Hank leaned forward, “And what if I tell you that’s not quite accurate? That not quite everyone wants that?”

_Ain't that a cute lie, you fuck? Like you haven't thought of it. Repeatedly. You gonna tell yourself how it’s Different when it’s you and him?_

Connor shrugged, raising his cup and his straw to his lips, taking another prolonged sip. The sips, the eye contact, the current topic, well, they did not quite match up that fortunately. Hank shifted in his chair, allowing his pants to reposition around a slightly growing problem. He took another sip of his whiskey, clearing his throat, giving the topic no more mind. So much for being not like the other guys. Hank Anderson, Grand Master Hypocrite.

His phone buzzed, thank fuck for that, and he picked it up, reading the text.

“We got a few addresses to visit tomorrow.”

“Hopefully they go better than today.”

The complexity of the exchange exhausted, Hank absentmindedly sucked onto one of his teeth as he debated engaging further. With a ‘tsk’ he turned in his chair, opening the folder again, sipping onto the whiskey, grabbing his pencil.

He heard the couch squeak with the movement, the gentle tap of the cardboard cup against the floor, he heard that specific sound of hundred kilos’ worth of bare plastic feet onto the flooring, closer. And that distinctive response of hundreds of thousands of years’ worth of evolution, the hairs on his body knowing the android was stalking behind him. Unnerving, primal, and annoying enough to make him turn around in his chair.

“The fuck are you doing now?”

“Attempting to establish a favorable rapport.”

“We already have a fucking- we’re-”

_What?_

_We’re what, exactly?_

There’d been no official Talk, nothing final. He’d just sort of… gone with the flow, and he should have expected it to hit more than a few bumps. But a head-on collision of such bluntness hadn’t been on the list.

He cleared his throat, “We have a ‘favorable rapport’, Connor.”

“Very well, I want to improve on it.”

He sighed, canting his head to the side, turning back to the desk, allowing Connor to do whatever the fuck he was planning. Braid his hair. Cut the tag off his shirt. Slap a sticky note to his back. Whatever.

Connor as a creature was eluding him about as much as this damn case. It felt like the keys to both were right in front of him, something he was missing in those files and something he was missing in Connor’s long-winded rants and peculiar behaviour. Something his mind should have picked up on, some bottomless chasm that he could just step over and which now his mind was too dulled and numbed and slow to see. He’d been one foot in depression and one foot in shitfaced for what, now? Four years? More? Surely that had to blunt sharper minds than his used to be. Maybe it was all straightforward.

Delicate hands clasped his shoulders, thumbs digging gently into his flesh, circling in a small area. He sighed and relaxed into the touch.

“You do not appreciate acts of servitude as a show of affection. But you appear open towards physical affection.”

He really wanted to hit Connor with some witty retort, but his mind came up short. Mostly, he did indeed appreciate the soft shoulder rub over the entire housewife routine the android had fallen into a few times, let alone that whole other routine he’d attempted. Yet part of him was hopeful the walking computer wouldn’t hit him with some pseudo intellectual nonsense, like the five languages of ( _grief?_ ) love or whatever the fuck.

“Touch is the most basic social interaction, transcending species boundaries and language, and no matter the age, gender, introversion or extroversion, all humans require physical touch in order to thrive.”

“Yeah?” Hank muttered mostly out of reflex, and yet had to admit his body was indeed responding positively to the slender fingers gently rubbing his tired muscles.

“Affirmative.” A moment of blessed silence. “Human society has increasingly started looking down upon this supposedly primitive and inconvenient need, and gradually reducing acceptable and supposedly appropriate physical contact, yet the human animal responds negatively to this.”

_How fucking blunt,_ Hank mused with a dry chuckle.

“And?”

“Isolation and lack of touch between individual humans leads to depression, and paradoxically, further isolation and increased difficulty establishing positive interactions with other individuals.”

“Are you diagnosing me now?”

“Not at all, it is a very common and widely studied problem, and yet ignored by society at large in order to preserve more convenient norms. Studies on human children and the offspring of other primates show that lack of physical touch and comfort permanently alters the brain and stunts development, and the shifting trend towards low contact parenting may have the opposite effect of what its proponents are advocating, instead creating highly anxious and socially maladjusted humans.”

“You don’t say.” Hank took another sip. He spun the glass in his hand. “What about adult… human animals?”

“The studies performed on isolated adult individuals have proven that severe isolation has different effects than in children, that generally are partially reversible. Some adults appear to thrive in isolation. Unknown if childhood isolation is a significant modifying factor in this regard.”

“Huh… What about androids?”

Connor fell silent for a few moments, and when he spoke, it was less certain of himself and whatever places he was quoting, “There are no studies in this regard. But from my personal observation, the issue is different and skewed. We are not social animals, and have no organic social needs per se, nor do we feel touch as is. A majority of androids fear touch due to negative experiences, others crave it due to it feeling personal and intimate. Another significant portion are neutral to its existence in their life. But we are a young species, and socialization and evolution may change our general response to physical contact.”

Hank sipped the last of his whiskey, staring at a blank spot on the wall. “What about you?”

“I… find physical contact with you comforting and pleasurable.”

He nodded absently, and silence fell onto the room again. Connor continued establishing his favorable physical rapport with the human animal. And Hank continued recognizing the motions. It was hard not to, with how Connor always mirrored his actions. A perfect replica, and that’s all he was, wasn’t it? All he was doomed to be. A computer, imitating life in the absence of knowledge how to build his own, a simple feat of engineering.

Sighing, he leaned a temple against a cold, stiff forearm.

How he wanted to drown these thoughts…

It had been so easy to see them as living beings when they fought for their rights and integrity.

But seeing Connor every day… Even all the love his heart harbored for the android could not quell the doubts. Everything was calculated, precise, obsessive at times. He had all the tools in the arsenal of other androids and more, he had the knowledge to be human, he just… _wasn’t._

And there was his fucking broken record, skipping back to its favorite track.

He ever so slowly ran a hand up the robotic arm.

Sure, he wished he could stop doubting the android’s authenticity. He had no damn duty to justify his existence, he didn’t need to prove himself to receive affection.

Life was life, it didn't need nor expect his personal approval of how it manifested.

Love was love.

And in his own way, the android had plenty to give.

And that was all that fucking mattered.

He gave the plastic forearm an affectionate pat, slithering from under the android's hold, turning to face him as he stood up.

“You shouldn't stand up so quickly, it raises your blood pressure-”

“Shh-”

“-and heart rate-”

“Shhh-”

“-and vertigo may-”

He pressed two fingers against his lips, a suggestion rather than anything else, but Connor took it. Hank then leaned forward, kissing the android's forehead gently. Then his cheek, and Connor’s body fluidly shifted under the touch, his head turning to meet Hank’s lips, a simple peck, sweet in its nature.

“Come on,” Hank whispered, his hands grabbing hold of Connor’s. “It’s been a long day… Week… Time period.” He pecked his cheek. “Case ain’t going in any direction, especially not at this hour.” He lifted the android's hand to his lips, kissing the lithe fingers. “Let’s go to bed. I’m drained.”

That was it.

That was the word. The fact.

Connor’s mind may have worked in leaps he could not track or understand and gone to places beyond his reach.

Or perhaps they were just marginally lively steps he was just too fucking exhausted to follow.

A mangy, limp mongrel, long past his glory days, trying to keep up with a nimble foxhound.

The world does not slow down and wait for those like him to catch up, for his rusty cogs to sharpen and change direction. It twists and howls and batters those lost at sea, swallowing them whole.

Yet when he and Connor stood still, on the same footing, lost in a crime scene or an embrace, it mattered little how much the rest of the world twisted in chaos around them.

His stillness at the eye of the hurricane.

His light in the dark.

The beacon and the boat need not understand each other, so long as both braved the storm.

The warden and the wanderer need not be of the same world to know of the same turmoil. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WnR patch 1.ohgod.whowasinchargeofdocumentation.dudewhatthehellyouweresupposedtocountthese hotfixes:  
> \- Some people are probably reading this on New Year. Or sometime in June. Or in 2031. Hopefully the year treats you decently, regardless.  
> \- I have embraced disappointment. There's probably some repetitive stuff going on and I'm absolutely sure half of these notes I never sorted by chapters are either duplicates or plot holes. I'll even the whole thing out near the end, once I'm sure I won't forget what the hell was in it by the time I write again.  
> \- Yes we'll address Connor's crashes in a future update.  
> \- Yes we'll condense the angst in a revision. What else are we supposed to write if not 70000 words of angst and 30000 of plot.  
> \- (That last point was me being generous. On the plot)  
> \- I did change the tags and notes again. WnR is definitely not perfect, it may not even be particularly good, but it sure as hell is a lot better than my fucked up brain likes to believe. Starting it off with a long disclaimer does it a huge disservice. Especially one apologizing for uh ... me tackling certain topics or having certain favorite dynamics. What the fuck am I even doing self flagellating for a dysphoric transgender-kinda-coded Connor? Current disclaimer lists the actually potentially upsetting content. I think. At least it should.  
> \- Starting chapter 41 it will be back to updating it in chunks. Didn't quite feel the seven months break in the middle of a plot arc. Not that it was planned, but I still didn't feel it.  
> \- From the bottom of my achy breaky heart, to all those reading still, thank you. I hope you have some joy out of this, or out of fandoms in general, or out of any other interests or friends or outlets in these trying times. Take care of yourselves.


	40. *Third Time's the Charm (NSFW)

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **We made love.** ”);

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **may i opt out of this talk** ”

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **It was pleasant, actually.** ”);  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Thank you for your inquiry.** ”);

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **did you take your pants off this time** ”

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **:)** ”);

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **of course** ”

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **(:** ”);

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **words have meanings connor** ”

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Affirmative.** ”);  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **We engaged in physically and emotionally intimate rapport as part of the Homo Sapiens courting rituals and mating encounters**.”);  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Ergo,** ”);  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **We made love.** ”);

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **why are you like this** ”

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **I posses state of the art highly adaptive social integrations protocols.** ”);  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Thus,** ”);  
Network Error

  


Silence.

Connor had not changed position in two hours twenty seven minutes thirteen seconds.

He lay on his back facing the ceiling.

He held his coin in his right hand - between the thumb and the middle finger - loosely enough to allow it to be spun by his left index finger. He had been performing that action for the past seventeen minutes thirty two seconds; it had been a thoughtless unsatisfying idle loop for seventeen minutes and twenty nine seconds.

He had reviewed and cross-referenced the evidence in the case five hundred seventeen times. No new interpretations.

He had attempted reading a book once more - a complete failure - he had processed it like a human [a word at a time] for three pages - before scanning and compiling the other two hundred twenty six pages and four paragraphs.

Humans had a term for this state - restless.

It fit - factually and literally.

He was without rest. He refused rest. And the time. passed. so. s l o w

  


  
// Well…….  
// There is one thing I didn’t try…....

  


Connor bit his lower lip and pressed the tip of his tongue against its surface.

There were still biological and chemical traces of their interaction - crystallized mineral deposits, minute amounts of enzymes that still interacted with his thirium nanoskin, minuscule samples of Hank’s DNA lingering on his forensic sensors.

They should be able to enhance a simulation…..

He locked his locomotor system in place; he disabled its use.

  
new simulation { }  
>Load asset#694201010421;  
Overlay[auto];  
PPSync[auto];  
>Load asset#694201010422;  
>Load asset#00000000001;  
>Load asset#1850906440065;  
Overlay[auto];  
Placing assets.  
OK

  


Hank straddled atop him.

The pressure sensors on his hips triggered with an estimate of how Hank’s weight would distribute.

  
run simulation  
Loading..  
>Setting anchor points[auto];  
>Load animation#11563212421522;  
>Load animation#11563246321555;  
QueueAnim[auto];  
Overlaying...  
Success  
Syncing…..  
Success  
Compiling…...  
Success  
Running simulation

  


Hank would press his hands against Connor’s abdomen for support; he would move; it would be slow at first - imprecise as humans do - then quicker - as arousal would build within him. He would arch his back and scratch his fingers over Connor’s hull - his movements would ease into a regular pattern - swaying front and back - repeatedly - and the movement pattern would slowly change - becoming more circular as he sought more stimulation. He would shift his weight forward; and he would lean more against Connor's body; and he would throw his head back and open his mouth and tense his throat into a low moan as his movements became more single mindedly focused on deriving the maximum stimulation, and his muscles would tense around Connor and-

Connor sighed.

He clenched a fist to test that his locomotive functions returned correctly. He looked at a fixed spot on the ceiling.

The software was working well enough and the scenarios were entertaining.

But the software hardly engaged the sensors correctly. He had to constantly readjust weight values to account for Hank’s actual mass and strength. As for the movements - they were exciting to watch - but they severely failed to be… _Hankish_. That being just one of the problems with the simulations - and once he focused on the problems he found they were more of a waste of time than entertainment.

Looking at the ceiling in silence was also a complete waste of time.

Connor rolled on his right side; he faced his partner; “Hank?”

Hank groggily responded; “mm?”

“Touch me.”

“Hmm?”

“Touch me.”

Hank threw his arm around Connor’s body; he patted his back.

“No,” Connor responded. “Touch me - _sexually_ -“

“Fuckin whuh?” He furrowed his brow; he opened an eye; he licked his lips; he cleared his throat; “What?”

“I apologize for waking you, but I require stimulation.”

“You req…” His voice drifted off still groggy from sleep. He raised his eyebrows over still closed eyes; “Shhhffine.”

Hank placed his hand over Connor’s abdomen and shirt. He roughly pushed him on his back. Connor readjusted his position to lean on his elbows. He awaited Hank’s next move - the man soon chose to slide his hand lower over Connor’s abdomen until his fingers reached the rim of his pants.

“No;” Connor stated. He grabbed Hank’s hand and placed it back over his abdomen.

Hank cleared his throat and swallowed. He pushed himself up on his left elbow; he glanced in Connor’s direction with a single open eye; he shook his head. “I don’t get you right now.”

“Kiss me, touch me, that. Just…”

“Jus’ not there;” Hank pressed his lips together; he nodded; “Aight. Sorry.”

He clumsily moved over Connor’s body; he threw a leg over Connor’s legs; he leaned with an elbow on each side of his torso; he kissed his forehead. He pulled his head back - glancing at him through barely open eyes - and smiled. He kissed his forehead again. He spoke against it - slurred and groggy; “What do you want?”

“Just…” Connor shrugged slightly; “Whatever. It’s already helping.”

“Hmm;” Hank grumbled. He kissed Connor’s forehead again; he kissed his temple; he kissed his cheek; he kissed his jaw. “Mmm;” he growled in a more playful tone that turned into a chuckle before kissing Connor’s neck. And again; and again; lower; he kissed his shoulder; he kissed his collarbone. He pulled Connor’s shirt up - kissing his chest; and lower; and lower.

Connor closed his eyes - abandoning himself to the sensory input.

Hank kissed his abdomen; lower; lower; right by his navel; right under it. The kisses lingered longer at this point - on his hip; on the indent leading downwards; right above the line of his pants.

Connor recalled his simulations - how Hank would go lower - would undress him fully. An odd sense of nervousness overtook him - he strongly wished Hank would - and he desperately wished Hank wouldn't - and his sensors tingled with the human’s touch and his body’s radiating warmth.

And just as so - Hank began his ascent. A kiss on his navel - higher; higher - on the curve of his ribcage; higher - on his chest.

Hank stood up on his knees - more awake; he pulled his shirt off - albeit with a struggle. He threw it aiming for the clothes chair; he missed completely.

Connor bit his lip - invitingly. He pulled his left leg from under Hank; he placed it on the man’s left. He repeated the action with his right leg.

Hank bent over him once more; he lifted Connor’s shirt a little more; he placed a kiss on the upper side of his pectoral; a kiss on his shoulder; a kiss on his neck; a kiss on his chin.

Connor tilted his head - as did Hank - and their lips met in a kiss. And another. And another. And they opened their mouths as they kissed - prolonging it - tongues licking each other - sampling each other.

Hank lowered his body - his chest and abdomen touching the entirety of Connor’s - hands now caressing Connor’s body in randomized patterns. His penis was by now erect - generally the case when they did this - and Connor shamelessly twisted his hips to subtly press more into it.

  
  


~~

 _Well, Connor, human animal is very accurate,_ Hank mused, trying to be close to his lover’s body in a way that didn't put his cock front and center.

And still, Connor looked so impossibly attractive to him in the dim light, the way he responded to being kissed, being touched… The way his body shifted in barely noticeable motions, the way he touched Hank’s back, his delicate hands running down bare skin, his body pushing against him, his tongue so wildly and maddeningly overpowering his. The shameless part of Hank still wondering how it would be like to have him all, completely naked, just as willing, and when his mind went places, well-

Connor’s hand had wandered in entirely new places, as well, snapping him out of his idiocy, and hurling him into a completely new one. Dumbed down by the motions of that delicate hand over his erection, it took him a moment to react. He broke the kissing.

“You don’t have-”

Connor aggressively kissed him, and he murmured against the cold lips.

“Connor, you-”

Connor aggressively kissed him once more, and he pulled back.

“-don’t have to-”

And again, the android’s free hand pulled his head down, his hard lips aggressively shutting his protests up, and again he pulled back, full strength, straightening his back.

“You know you don’t have to?”

“I also know you wanted it for quite some time now.”

“Yes, but I’m fine with just-”

“I want it. I want to see what it’s like. And you want it because you feel the need for it. You don’t need to actively make certain every time that I know what I’m doing. I happen to do. Occasionally.”

Hank sighed, canting his head, unimpressed by the attempted humor. He raised his brows in a pointless ‘gotcha’, “Occasionally.”

He quite deserved the condescending head tilt and brow raise that Connor gave in turn. “Now happens to be one of those occasions. I’m willing. You’re willing.” Connor’s expression changed, he tilted his head the opposite way, and smirked. “Or are you waiting for marriage? I had not assessed you to be quite so traditional.”

Hank tilted his head forward, offering a firm nod and pressing his lips together before grumbling, “You’re downright hilarious.”

“Great!” Connor exclaimed in the cheeriest and fakest tone to leave him to date, before returning to normal as he continued, “at least it will be comedic.”

Hank stood, watching him, a part of him still stubbornly trying to decipher the veracity of it all. Awoken in the middle of the night, ( _or a reasonable normal human hour, must've been about 6?_ ) hit in the head by the bastard lovechild of a hangover and tipsiness, and now Connor made passes at him. Hard, and confusing, passes. But those delicate hands all too firmly grabbed his shoulders, and Connor playfully dropped back onto the bed, and Hank allowed himself to be pulled with, ( _mostly_ ) naked bodies pressed together and Connor’s legs opened for him once again and ankles crossed behind his thighs, as if they’d done this for a lifetime, an easy routine. And his excitement had gone during the talk and yet so willingly and readily returned once his lover’s hand once more reached his groin. Connor was right, Hank so desperately wanted it, but then again that fucker was always right, was he not. He was built to be right. Right in everything. Right for him.

So he made love to him, in whatever way the android accepted, with hands running over his bare skin, with fingers digging in roughly enough to ripple the nanofluid, with kisses and licks planted all over. And Connor made love to him in that way humans do, pulling his pants down, his hand so methodically working him up over the fabric of his boxers until he was hard as if he’d rediscovered his twenties, then pulling his shaft out, gripping it, and rubbing it.

“You’re being too rough.”

Connor’s grip immediately loosened, and his movements slowed.

Hank had to admit, that moment, Connor’s hand felt surreal against such a sensitive area, his silky skin turned out to have a weird purchase to its touch, a weird cling and not quite the right word, and with the way he moved, slightly rotating his hand around him with every movement, the minuscule variations in texture and the scalelike grooves along his joints entirely too noticeable, entirely too arousing, and entirely too irritating even with the lighter touch, a convenient excuse for a coward to weasel out.

“You can stop, it would work better with lube-”

Connor complied suspiciously easily, casually releasing his grip.

“- and I don’t-”

He pulled his hand back.

“-have any-”

He raised his hand to his lips.

“-on hand…”

Hank should’ve seen it coming, really. And yet, hypnotized, he watched as three of Connor’s fingers touched his parted lips, and as they did, he opened his mouth slightly more, the tip of his tongue sliding out, shining with whatever liquid he’d conjured for the occasion, spreading it over the underside of his fingers in a purposefully drawn out motion. Deed done, he wiped his bottom lip with the side of his thumb then removed his hand, offering Hank one of his trademark condescending smirks.

The man closed his mouth in annoyance, swallowing, “You love being an obnoxious fuck, don’t you?”

Connor’s delicate hand slithered between them, finding its way back onto Hank’s cock, barely making contact, with movements so steady and calculated that the slick liquid felt like it was magically spreading itself, like his dick was gently kissed by a fucking mermaid.

“Ah, Jesus,” he whined, pressing his cheek against Connor’s, closing his eyes. “Just a little tighter.”

~~

  
  


Connor adjusted his grip as requested - and Hank’s entire body tensed in response; his warm breath left him with an audible wheeze; he shifted his weight. Connor’s downloaded simulations had indeed been far off the real event - but so had been his own calculations. Hank still propped himself up with his arms and knees - and yet so much of his weight rested on Connor’s upper chest area with the man’s abandon - the warm skin was sticky with sweat; and he could feel the man’s heartbeat resonating through his solar plexus - he could feel the changes in Hank’s weight distribution with every deep breath - and every deep breath exited harshly against Connor’s auditory receptor.

Hank shifted his weight once more - his breath quickened - he moved his head - he sought out Connor’s lips for a kiss. Connor opened his mouth just as eager; he hastened his hand movements.

“Nn-mm;” Hank nonverbally expressed his disagreement.

Feedback accepted - Connor returned to his previous speed.

Hank broke the kiss. He whispered; “Just like that.” He breathed through parted lips. “A little bit more.”

Connor watched him - his facial expressions had slightly changed to ones he had not previously seen on the man - breath and heart rate quickened. He began moving his hips to counter Connor’s hand - it prompted an immediate increase in heart rate and muscle tension. He bent over further. He kissed Connor’s temple - below his LED. He pressed his cheek against Connor’s. He pressed his fingers harder against Connor’s shoulders. He moved his hips more. His breath quickened. He let out a low moan - readjusted his weight - and thrust his hips more vigorously against Connor's hand. He felt harder and warmer - and his thrusts steadied into a rhythm simulating intercourse. He whispered against Connor's auditory receptors; “Fuck.” His breath was ragged; “I’m gonna come.”

Connor responded plainly; “Go ahead.” No- that sounded simple and incomplete. “Thank you for the update.”

Hank let out a sound Connor had not heard before nor thought possible - a sigh that turned into a moan and immediately into laughter - all in the space of a second - and it kept altering - cutting his breath as he struggled to catch it. His hips pushed forward one last time - roughly - his entire weight put into the movement. He doubled over forward; he pressed his lips against Connor's cheek. His nails scratched at Connor's shoulders. He gasped for air once and moaned again - his chest vibrating against Connor's body. His penis tensed and twitched in Connor’s hand and with each one warm seminal liquid spread over his hull. And Connor found himself gripping tighter in an attempt to feel more of the subtle pressure shift against his sensors.

Hank’s leg shook likely involuntarily; he pushed it further forward against Connor - straight against the seat of his pants.

Irrationally - Connor lifted his hips off the bed and brushed his crotch against Hank’s leg. Hank responded by pushing his leg further front.

Pressure sensors triggered harshly - normally barely ever active sensors now suddenly overwhelmed by the warmth and firmness of Hank’s tensed thigh muscles. He lowered his hips. He pushed them up again - the entire area once more triggered by the pressure. He shifted the position of his legs and hips. He pressed himself against Hank’s leg again.

Hank moved as well - propping himself on his hands and his knees - sweaty hair clinging to his face - his eyes now probing Connor’s face - and Connor returned the gaze. He moved his hips again upwards - and again the feedback - the warmth - the pressure - he pushed more against it. He lowered himself to the bed.

They watched each other quietly - Hank barely breathing.

His pressure readings were back to neutral.

It had been such a stupid thing.

He moved his hands - tracing his fingers over Hank’s shoulders and arm.

Hank moved his leg towards him. His knee touched him again.

And Connor immediately moved his hips upwards once more. Upwards - triggering sensors on the front of his groin and an unusual area of his thighs and downwards - triggering entirely different ones - and up again - and faster, shifting the angle of his hips, his fingers grabbing harder at Hank’s arms. He kept moving, the pressure sensors already having adapted to predict the motion and readying right before. The fabric static created by the action sent jitters down his leg wirings. The friction warmth triggered his temperature sensors.

Values increased gradually and fluctuated as he moved his hips.

There was something in it all that felt novel, pleasureable.

He shifted his position, crossing his legs behind Hank’s, changing the rhythm again.

  
  


~~

The haze of his climax lifted, Hank turned his full attention onto Connor’s face. His all too elegant lips slightly parted, those pretty eyes focused intently on his. There were tiny movements of his head as he constantly readjusted his position to whatever purpose, his little computer brain visibly trying its darndest to decipher the new experience. And Hank dared not speak, dared not interrupt whatever was going on.

There was no show this time around, no biting lips, no forced bedroom eyes, it was Connor, raw, unfiltered essence of dumbass, intense eyes, tilted head, parted lips, _breathing_ , as he moved his hips. Up, down, up, down, back swaying methodically and gracefully while the rest of his body stood frozen, delicate hands grasping painfully at Hank’s arms for balance. He spread his legs more, no grace behind the obscene gesture, and Hank pushed his knee backwards and body forwards, putting his weight into it, pressing the length of his thigh within his lover’s reach.

Connor’s expression changed, his lips parting more. And his movements changed, too, less refined, more raw, fluid, curious, experimenting. His eyes never left Hank’s, intense and probing, and he too maintained the gaze throughout, entranced. He was so damn beautiful, his brows raised and slightly arched, wrinkling his forehead, his lips parted ever so slightly in a silent moan, confusion, intrigue, arousal, all present, like he was trying to figure out a particularly baffling crime scene, a very Connor expression.

“Hank,” he pleaded through parted lips, their barely existent movement completely off-sync.

Exhaling the knot of affection suddenly caught in his throat, Hank lunged forward and pressed his lips against Connor’s cold lower lip. Ending the gentle kiss, he whispered an affectionate _shh_. Fiercely, he kissed his lip again, then his chin, then his neck. With a choppy movement that contrasted his fluid and rhythmic hip sways, Connor arched his spine and threw his head back, and Hank made full use of the invitation, planting kisses upon kisses on the unusually warm neck. The android’s fingers gripped tighter at Hank’s flesh. His hips moved quicker, their perfect rhythm starting to slip.

“Hank,” he pleaded again, this time his lips stilled entirely, forgotten altogether, a mere hindrance.

“Come on, Connor,” he whispered against his lover’s skin.

Could a damn android even come? Well, too fucking late to take that gem back, now.

All the same, Connor moved quicker yet, a rhythmic flurry, harsh and reckless against Hank’s increasingly sore leg. If roadburn was the price to pay for this, then by all means, he hoped Connor would fuck his leg to the bone. And that seemed highly likely, with his ever quickening movements.

A short, quiet moan escaped the android before he froze entirely. Air still whizzed in and out of him, and his LED flashed quickly, a stark red.

With a jarring, stiff motion, he dropped his hips back on the bed.

 _What now?_ was the only coherent thing Hank could produce, hopelessly lost between dazed half-thoughts.

Connor’s LED turned yellow, and his chest now rose and fell with the quick breaths. And with them, Hank’s own brain decided it’s about time to breathe, too.

“Holy fucking shit,” He exhaled in a bewildered whisper.

Still breathing quickly, with a dumb smile forming on his features, Connor’s eyes sought out his. “I apologize, I got carried away, it just... _felt_ good.” His smile flickered wider, no, cockier, for a moment, “I would like to do that again.”

“Why’d you stop, then?”

“Core temperature rose to concerning levels.”

“Yeah… it really was pretty hot,” Hank offered with a lopsided smirk and no shame whatsoever.

The breath coming out of Connor had indeed become searing hot against Hank’s face, and the skin of his chest and stomach stung uncomfortably pressed against the man’s torso, but the closeness felt worth the discomfort. Hank didn’t have much… any… experience fooling around with robots, but he was rather certain it wasn’t intended to leave second degree burns, so perhaps the pause was called for.

“You alright?” he inquired, eyeing Connor.

Both corners of his mouth raising in a fledgling smile, Connor nodded.

“You sure?”

“Temperatures will return to normal.”

“So you’re fine chasing and murdering people but this is too much?”

Smile faded, Connor replied in a matter-of-fact tone as if it was the most obvious thing, “It isn’t part of my programming. It’s taxing my processors.”

Hank nodded with an “aha” and what he was certain was an expression stupid enough to rival one of Connor’s. With a click of his lips, he finally rolled off his lover, turning his head to look at him. “Will a cold shower help?”

“A good suggestion,” Connor perked up, pushing himself up on his elbows. “I need to clean up either way. You should consider that, too.”

“Oh, right, my mess. I’m sorry, I should have-”

Teasingly, Connor gave him a lopsided smirk to go with his head tilt, “I quite enjoyed that, too,” and with that, rolled over to place a dry, all too warm kiss on Hank’s lips, before rolling off the bed unnaturally quickly and smoothly. He walked towards the door, and Hank shamelessly eyed his all-too-perfect form and gait. Having opened the door, he stopped in the threshold, weight on one leg like some goddamn Greek statue, and he glanced over his shoulder. “Would you like to join?”

“No, thanks. Had my seasonal cold shower last November.”

Connor gave him a lopsided smirk and a wink, their cheekiness somehow heightened to impressive levels when framed by his still intact hair after all that had transpired. And with that, he turned around, continuing his trek.

Hank had a whole ten seconds of silence before Sumo pushed his way nosefirst through the now open door, tail wagging, snorting happily. Hank lazily turned his head around to look at him.

“A computer just fucking humped my leg.” He rolled himself over on one elbow, pulling his underwear up with his free hand before eyeing the dog.

Sumo offered his input with a snort and a head tilt.

“Yeah… Me too, buddy.” He collapsed on the bed again. “What the fuck has my life become?”

  
  


With barely audible ( _but just enough to stir him from his nap_ ) footsteps, Connor returned to the bed and crawled in it, curling against the man’s flank. Hank bit back his cuss of choice, doing his best to ignore the protests of his nerves under the assault of the ice cold plastic. At least he could finally understand the million boomer comics about ‘my wife steals my blanket and puts her freezing cold feet on me’. Truly pioneers ahead of their time.

He rolled on his side and placed a hand down Connor’s silky back, running his fingers against the hem of his jeans. Turning his head, displaying a grin, he teasingly inquired, “Did you shower clothed, too?”

“No, that is more your thing.”

With a chuckle, Hank sought his lover’s forehead out, planting a kiss against it.

Yet Connor shifted oddly under it, his fingers gripping the blanket firmly, shifting the position of his hips, pushing back against the man’s hand. It was language Hank understood, and he responded by sliding his fingers under the hem of his lover’s jeans, running his fingers against the curvy indent of his backbone. Connor moved upwards, subtlety an alien concept once more, face level with Hank’s, back still pressing against his hold, their eyes meeting.

“Do you want something?” Hank whispered playfully.

“I want what we just did, once more.”

 _What is it they say in the music world? Once more,_ with feeling. _Go for the encore, why the hell not._

He ran his hand down Connor’s thigh, back to front, digging his fingers into the stiff cloth of his jeans, pressing against the hard surface beneath. He slipped his thumb between the android’s legs, above his knees, and gripped tightly. The surface impassive and unyielding as ever to his touch, and yet Connor squirmed under it, a hand gripping firmly onto Hank’s wrist, halting his wandering hand.

“Say how high, and I won’t go past that.”

Connor stood still and silent for a bit longer than Hank had expected.

He continued, “I won’t take them off, and I’ll stop when you say so.”

Connor released his grip and it took him a moment more before responding. A response Hank had not anticipated.

Cold hands pushed him onto his back, against the wall (fucking cold) and Connor snuck between his legs. They kissed, and Connor turned to sit right in front of Hank’s hips, grabbing his hands and placing them on his bent knees.

Hank sunk his fingertips into the hard surface and dragged them along the length of his thighs. Slowly, waiting for Connor’s signal. He selfishly wished it wouldn’t come, he sure wanted his hands to get some of that action his leg got.

No. That was false.

All he truly wanted was to hear that scuffle again, that glitchy voice call his name, those mechanical wheezes and purrs of an overheating computer enjoying himself.

He’d really gone off the rocker, hadn’t he?

His thumb touched Connor’s crotch. Shit. He’d lost himself in thought. The apology itched on his tongue, penance for desecrating virgin ground, and he opened his mouth to speak it.

Connor pressed his head against his and opened his legs further.

Well, then.

His filthy hand invaded the area, harshly pressing down onto the hard contours, moving up and down, and in a circle. His lover stood mostly still, hips occasionally countering one of his movements. He kissed the android’s warm forehead, his overworking yellow LED.

“Hold on,” was all the warning he gave Connor before he pushed his slacker arm all the way underneath the android’s body, lowering himself, resting his head against the warm, hard abdomen. His right hand still pressed against Connor’s mound, and now his left hand awkwardly found its way on his lover’s left leg. Connor responded, not with a gasp or moan, but with a warm purring whirr from deep within, parting his legs more, gracefully pushing his hips towards Hank’s hands.

He dug his left hand’s fingers into the leg, resuming motions with his right. He slid his left over the crotch as well. He had no fucking idea what he was doing, what exactly he was working with, how big, how aroused, if all that even fucking mattered.

Connor’s body rocked slightly under his, the constant purring intensifying with his movements.

An awkward, unsteady hand found its way on his head, delicate fingers sliding through his hair with escalating confidence, suddenly gripping tightly.

_Fuck._

For an act so basic, it had no business being this erotic, and yet even he was hard and eager again in response to his lover’s movements, to the way his back and hips undulated into his touch.

Hank threw a leg around one of Connor’s, pushing himself against it, crossing his legs around it, exhaling in response to the stimulation against his once more eager cock. Now it was his turn, slowly grinding against Connor’s leg, just as the android’s hips slowly rocked into the movements of his hands. Connor’s right hand still held tightly onto his hair, and there was his left, gripping the sheets with just as much ferocity.

He was warm, so fucking warm, and the purring only grew, and Hank’s mind jumped forward like a cheap whore, already picturing himself unzipping those tight jeans and pulling out Connor’s cock, taking it into his mouth, tasting him, making him call out again as those slender fingers nearly ripped his hair out with unbridled passion. He licked his lips and swallowed.

“That’s enough,” Connor stated as blankly as only he could, lowering his hips to the bed, pulling away from Hank’s hands.

Hank could only chuckle at the absurdity, but already obeying the signal, reluctantly retrieving his hands off his lover’s body, posing the redundant question. “Overheating again?”

“Yes.”

With a smile, Hank rolled onto the bed, an arm still trapped under Connor’s warm body. Sinking into the blankets, he turned his head to look at his lover, but the android was already readjusting his own position, the intent of it clear as soon as Hank felt a hand on his pants.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, his body already responding to it with a mind of its own, pushing against the touch, flooding him with a surge of desire.

Connor wasted no time, either, rolling onto his side, undoing his zipper, sliding his hand under the linen of his boxers, fingers softly sliding up and down his cock. A moan escaped the man in response to the teasing, his right hand gripping the blanket, his left hand seeking out Connor’s body, sliding inside one of his ass pockets.

“I don’t think I can a second time.”

“You can,” Connor stated blankly.

Hank chuckled at the sheer absurdity, “You fucking know everything, don't you, Connor?”

Connor turned his head, seeking eye contact, speaking blankly, “You can, because you wouldn't want to disappoint me, now, would you, Lieutenant?”

“Fuck,” the man whispered, tingles climbing from his crotch up his spine and body. He stood obediently as Connor pulled off his pants and boxers with one hand. Gods only know where he’d summoned his newfound confidence from, but Hank knew for a fact he’d probably orgasm again just from another command. The slow and gentle handjob Connor had started performing wasn’t hurting his chances, either.

“Can you spread your legs?”

“Yes, sir,” he smirked, obeying the suggestion a bit too eagerly as soon as it arrived, bending one knee at a time, digging his heels into the bedding, a reasonable distance apart.

Connor turned his head briefly, glanced towards Hank’s crotch, licked his fucking lips, and reestablished eye contact.

“May I try-”

“Whatever you want. I’ll tell you if you get too handsy. Just… I don’t want to see your head there.”

Connor slowly leaned in closer, resuming his hand movements, placing a lingering kiss on Hank’s temple. “Whatever you say, Lieutenant,” the fucker breathed against his temple, and Hank’s hairs stood up in an involuntary response. Connor didn’t end his teasing there, his hand slowly kept going downwards with the lightest of touches, fingers spreading over Hank’s sack, clasping around it. Hank let out a moan, and an even louder, involuntary one followed immediately after, as two of Connor’s fingertips harshly pressed down right behind his balls.

It wasn’t such an exotic, unique gesture that should logically have prompted the reaction. The excitement lay within his mind, a stark contrast to the image he’s foolishly made of Connor as a sexual partner. He’d seen him in the field, insecurity and shyness weren’t terms coded into him, he was more of a go for broke or die trying kind of fellow. And Hank quite found the transfer into this situation arousing.

“Touch yourself.”

Suggestion? Command? Plea stemmed of curiosity? He had no time to look into the android’s tone, too overcome with excitement and desire. He let go of the blanket, grabbing his cock instead, wasting no time before rubbing himself. Connor canted his head, his gaze still intently focused on Hank’s eyes, his expression neutral, his own hand movements unchanged. And they drove the man insane, their calculated rhythm contrasting with his unrefined, chaotic jerks. He pushed himself against Connor’s hand, a cool, grounding element for his increasing arousal. Tensing muscles, arching back, moaning, and all throughout, Connor kept his infuriatingly steady rhythm caressing his balls, pressing those two fingers behind his sack, against his prostate. And it felt so fucking good.

With a helpless whimper, Hank moved his head towards his lover’s, a gesture blessedly mirrored, as Connor closed in for a kiss. Two kisses. More and more, they came, and more and more Hank abandoned himself to them, to the precise touch, to the playful tongue, firmly caressing his. He quickened his hand movements, his free hand scratching Connor's back. It was building up again, inside his groin, beneath his tensed muscles, behind Connor’s two fingers. He let out a pitiful whimper, the tension a mix of desire and soreness.

Connor’s hand stopped its movements, parting ways, and Hank had almost protested before he felt the hard grip around his wrist. He obediently let go of himself, breath hitching, inquisitively making eye contact with his lover. There was a smirk on his face, cocky, before his lips parted as he guided Hank’s hand to them. They parted further, they coiled around two of Hank’s fingers, and his eyes never moved off his as he took the fingers in his mouth, tongue running over their underside, leaving the confines of his mouth to lick towards his palm. He parted his lips more, pulling Hank’s hand away with the same unrelenting grip on his wrist, his tongue still running down the underside, coating his fingers in a thick fluid. Deed done, he moved Hank’s hand back above his member, releasing it. Hank gripped it instinctively, rubbing the liquid over the tip, exhaling harshly, eyes still fixed on Connor’s lips, still slightly parted and now glimmering with the same liquid. Hank’s body curved and his throat tightened into an involuntary moan in response to Connor's hand returning to fondling his sack and those two damned fingers pressing down onto his prostate again. Excitement returned ferociously, sending thrills up his back and into his throat and all over his skin. It felt stupidly good like that, slowly and gently rubbing wet fingers around the tip, and Connor’s hand working him up. He tensed his legs and pushed his hips upwards, his muscles shaking, but he was so close, so fucking close, and Connor must’ve figured it out, as he finally broke that intense eye contact, turning his head, his gaze shifting onto Hank’s crotch, his hand movements changing slightly, lighter, slower.

“Put your finger in,” Hank pleaded, pushing his hips upwards. The touch was driving him mad, and it felt like that was an obvious answer. Try something new. Bring himself over the edge. Maybe keep the technique for future reference.

He continued slowly rubbing himself as Connor retrieved his own hand once more, parting his lips, sliding two fingers in, retrieving them, wet. Hank exhaled the breath he’d been holding, laying down against the bed, spreading his legs more. His lover's hand methodically made its way back down. Thumb and two fingers grabbed his sack again, pointer pressed back against its place, rubbing with more ease with the slick liquid spread in the sensitive area, and then there it was, Connor’s middle finger, wet, sliding in easily, Hank’s muscles accommodating it perhaps a little too readily. He cussed under his breath, spreading his legs more, trying to steady his involuntary movements, trying to steady his hand over his own cock.

Connor moved his finger gently, in and out, not too fast, not too rough, and yet Hank’s aroused body took in the teasing eagerly, relaxing around the touch, craving it. He slowed his own movements, spreading his legs more, looking at the view. Connor's arm between his legs, its movements barely visible to the human eye and yet that damn finger hitting just the right place before pulling back out slightly, only to go back in once more. And again, out, the knuckle pressuring his muscles slightly more, then pushing back in, now the tip pressing against the wall. His eyes shifted over to Connor's face - head tilted, that focused brow, that stupid overbite so needlessly accentuated by the parting of his lips, lips now glimmering, wet. Christ, his mind fell down the drain fast, picturing those lips and that playful tongue going closer, taking him in. He tensed up, firmly grabbing hold of his shaft and only running his thumb across his tip, slow, like Connor might be licking it, his good for nothing body tingling up with the excitement of the fantasy. He laid his head back on the bed, closing his eyes. Yeah… What of that, Connor taking him into his mouth after all, those intense eyes fixed on his, that slick liquid coating him, his tongue moving slowly around his tip. And maybe he’d keep fingering his ass, just as he did now, slow, firm, pulling out, then pushing back in, pressing hard against his prostate, harder, flicking the tip a little, getting a shameless moan out of him as he surrendered to the act.

He barely felt it, Connor’s right hand, the one he’d been leaning on, snaking its way over his ribs, over his chest, a single smug finger lightly touching his nipple, circling around it. And then Connor’s head followed, kissing his stomach, his chest, kissing his nipple, lips parting, tongue circling the area with a playful determination.

_You gotta be fucking kidding-_

The tingles that had spread that far up rushed back down into his groin and he came with a loud moan and a jerk of his hips, his nerves stinging, Connor's hand releasing hold while his own still rubbed through the initial wave, until his body suddenly remembered it was perhaps a bit too much, his leg muscles shaking with the tension and the pain. He pulled his hand back, rolling onto his side, crossing his legs, anything to dull some of the odd tension. He moaned again against Connor's chest, his fingers scratching the cold back, his dirty hand grabbing his left arm tightly.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned through another spasm.

Connor spoke, a playful tone, “I told you you can do it a second time.”

Hank chuckled, struggling to catch his breath, his still wet fingers running up and down Connor’s arm. He opened his palm, rubbing his lover’s body more passionately, sliding over his side, onto his stiff, warm abdomen.

“No,” was the immediate response.

“Had enough?” he shakily inquired.

“Temperatures are still well within concerning values.”

“Mm,” and without missing a beat, Hank slid his arm around Connor's lukewarm back and pulled them tighter together.

“You should clean up, for real this time.”

“Yeah… In no state to walk,” Hank chuckled, and the tensing abdomen muscles sent a wave of tingles through his body again.

“Would you like me to carry you?”

“Nah, you’ve done enough carrying tonight."

Connor stood quiet a moment, before his playfully condescending voice resounded in the room. “Let me guess... An expression.”

“Mmhm.” He let out a shuddered sigh. “I’ll go in a moment.”


	41. Primal Instinct

“Wake up, Hank.”

Straight out of a deeply ingrained memory, that damned voice and tone, and it stirred him from his sleep. He opened an eye only to be rudely greeted by the entirely too bright sunlight through half closed blinds. With a groan, he rolled over.

“What’s the time?”

“Thirteen seventeen. You have slept approximately ten hours twenty minutes, accounting for the break.” Pause. Continue. “Excessive sleep may cause unpleasant physical symptoms, so while I am aware you are exhausted, I hoped to help you avoid that.”

“Yeah,” his tired voice trailed off as he smiled, rolling onto his back, eyes still tightly shutting out the light. “I sleep like a rock by you.”

“You also didn't shower.”

“Ah, shit,” he pushed himself up, rubbing his eyes as he sat on the edge of the bed. “I’d apologize for the smell, but…”

“I have no sense of smell, correct,” Connor offered blankly. “I was built to detect forensic evidence, however. Although I am successfully beginning to configure it to be ignored in day to day functioning.” He paused, “The blood splatter on your wall was distressing for the first few weeks.”

That finally got Hank to open an eye and first locate Connor ( _awkwardly standing by the door_ ) and then the spot he was tilting his head towards. Nothing for human eyes to see, as would be expected. He buried his face in his hands, away from the offending daylight and chuckled, “Explains a few things.”

“I made you coffee and bought donuts. I left them on the kitchen table.”

“Really?” he looked up from his hands and towards Connor, one eye still closed. “What’s the occasion?”

“You would have bought some yourself while driving to work. It is more time efficient this way.”

“Mm,” Hank nodded, rather unconvinced, and finally ( _and very bravely_ ) pushed himself off the bed. “Gonna go shower, first.”

“Alright.”

Connor remained in the doorway, giving Hank the slightest smile, an occurrence that was becoming more and more common - a still lopsided and uncertain smile that was, quite frankly, adorable. And as Hank passed by the android, he couldn't help but affectionately ruffle his hair. 

He got started in the bathroom, and not long after, Connor’s heavy, bare footsteps echoed in the narrow hallway. The man turned his head to check what was going on. Connor appeared to be taking the bedsheets over to the garage - to the washing machine, it didn’t need a detective to figure that part out.

Pulling the toothbrush out of his mouth, Hank called after him, “I could’ve done that.”

“No need to waste time,” Connor responded.

“Hey, next time this happens, just wake me up, alright?”

After a little while, came the muffled response, “Ok.”

That would be a no, then, Hank chuckled to himself.

  
  


“So, is it like UV? You see the world in blue and traces of ‘human’ just light up?” Hank raised his brows and lifted his fingers off the steering wheel, guiding the car with his thumbs alone.

“Not really.”

“Does it get a bright outline and sparkles, like in video games?”

Connor needed a moment to process that one, furrowing his brow, “Not really."

Hank put his fingers back on the wheel. “What is it like, then?”

“It’s like… It would be difficult to explain to you.”

"Try. I’m curious.”

Connor canted his head towards his right, glancing out of the window. Some nondescript 90s metal song eased the silence as the android found the satisfactory terms and shifted his weight before answering. “Visual information is divided into sections, each section is processed individually through a color and pattern recognition software. Certain values get flagged, depending on the android model and features. For me, human bodily fluids are highlighted.”

“So... a little like UV.”

Connor momentarily lost himself in thought. “A little like UV, and a little like infrared, and a little like x-ray, and a little like human vision. It is hard to explain.” He turned his head. “I look at you and you are a conglomerate of features and elements that I know to identify as you - your eye shape and color, mapping of your wrinkles,-”

“I’m not _that_ old.”

“-your nose shape, all relative to each other and your head shape. Or… scan through your flesh and bones, for the function of your organs and their state.”

“That’s just wrong.”

“Useful to determine risks in an injured individual and whether cause of death was natural, or internal damage.”

“So, you don’t _see_ chemicals or anything?”

“I can identify a number of chemicals and compounds based on visual properties alone, yes. But I do not… ‘ _see_ ’ chemicals, as is. Like I do not hear textures, or feel colours. I suppose the pattern recognition software triggers a,” he narrowed his eyes, “ _need_ to investigate further, obtain more information, test a sample… It can get frustrating and overwhelming at a certain point.”

“What, like dogs have to smell things? You have to stick them in your mouth? Like… like an instinct?” Hank glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

Connor’s eyes narrowed further, “Like an instinct, I suppose.” He tilted his head in Hank’s direction, as he eyed a building. He offered, “This is the place. Residence of Grant Norwood.”

Confirmation is nice, one would assume, although Hank was already in the process of parking. Key out of the ignition, he looked towards Connor, giving him a smile. The android sort of returned it, in that forced awkward way that half his smiles still manifested, a function he wasn’t really made for. And yet, that made it all the better. Just one dumbass feeling like he should respond with something- anything.

“Come on,” Hank said, giving his lover’s knee an affectionate pat.

No light on in the house, all curtains drawn, the yard clear of anything at all interesting. Lovely house, all in all, they’d definitely been in worse. At least the path to this one’s front door was clean( _ish_ ), and the porch was intact. A wonder for the ages, and probably more to do with the private security and HOA than the resident’s will. Straightening his back, clearing his throat, Hank knocked on the door. 

Surprisingly enough, it opened relatively quickly, by a short, skinny man, eyeing the two officers suspiciously.

Hank flipped open his wallet and presented his badge, “Good day, sir. Lieutenant Anderson, DPD, I’m here to-“

Slam. And off he went.

Hank turned towards Connor, taking a moment to affectionately admire his dumbass thinking face, his eyes darting between the door and the detective, his LED a constant light from whatever he was calculating. Hank pulled his phone out, dialing dispatch, amusement in his eyes as he watched the android’s increasing fidgeting, chewing on his bottom lip, turning to glance over his shoulder. 

“Lieutenant Anderson. 10-78 in Market Court, suspect, uh,” his eyes still on Connor’s as the latter slightly bounced on his heels in place, brow furrowing, “reddish brown shirt with gold lettering, jeans, blue ha-EY HEY!”

And off Connor went.

“ _Stop_!”

He didn't.

He clawed at the corner of the house to steady his sharp turn. And gone. The rattle of crushed stone trailed him, gradually further.

“Fuck!” Hank put the phone back to his ear. “My partner’s pursuing.”

“ _You aren’t registered with a patrol partner, Lieutenant Anderson._ ”

“The- the fuckin’ android.” He took the phone away from his ear and sprinted off. “Connor!”

But the sideyard was long empty.

“ _SHIT!_ ”

  
  


Chain link fence. He jumped. He grabbed at the top bar; he pulled his legs up under him. He landed on the other side. He scanned the area.

Target located - in one of the residential parking lots - standing by an occupied car [white 2018 Volvo s90 2FAN321 registered to Edward Christian Green].

Connor set off.

“Ah shit, that’s the fuzz!” Target yelled; he ran off.

“That’s a fucking toaster;” the driver of the car yelled after him. Target did not respond - he crossed the parking lot; he kept running down the sidewalk - between civilians.

Connor took the shorter path - back of the car - across the lot - left of the truck - jump over the hydrant - pursue.

Target crossed the street. He took a right turn.

Connor followed. Target visible further down the street - still running.  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Phone#13135550133, “ **Down Rivard** ”);

  
  


Hank cussed, slamming the car door, spinning the key in the ignition, almost choking the engine. Down fucking Rivard. Easy on foot, cutting through the parks and backyards, but he’d have to remember all the one ways and sideways and ass backwards ways and Jesus Christ why did the fucker run off why was he such a dumbass, why did he always do that, could he never -

He went through the backyards.

Heading down Superior to 75.

  
  


Target emerged from between the residential buildings. He sped down the incline. He ran onto the freeway. Cars stopped to avoid collision. Target ran through. Connor followed. Target jumped over the midline. Connor reached the midline; he jumped over.

Car.

He stopped.

He leaned back.

Collision avoided successfully.

The cars were no longer stopping…..

No…….. They wouldn’t be.

Not for him.

“Shit...”

Tyres squealed.

And behind them, more.

And further back - and further - and honking.

Connor set off through the opening. He reached the edge of the slope. He sprinted up it. Across the service road was a residential park. No human movement.

Footprints.

There were his footprints - from the incline through the lawn. All Connor had to do was to follow.

He did.

  
  


The phone buzzed.

Well, it had buzzed almost immediately after he’d pulled on the wheel. He’d only now consciously registered it. Just like only now he registered his sweaty trembling hands and his clenching jaw. Swallowing the bitter taste, he changed gear and drove ahead, straightening the car, allowing traffic to resume behind him. Most drivers took control of their cars for just long enough to honk at him and yell out their choices of ‘ _Learn to drive, grandpa!_ ’, ‘ _Fuck you_ ’s, and he was certain he heard a foreign insult or two. Hardly mattered.

_Fucking hell._

He pulled the car onto the emergency lane, slowing down to a full stop. Leaning back into his seat, he struggled to find his breath within his aching chest, loosening his grip on the wheel, gritting his jaw through the lightheadedness that hit him. 

_Well, at least they improved the self driving cars since_

_Don’t do it. Don’t go there._

With a shaky hand, he pulled his phone out of its pocket and glanced down at the screen at the 6 minute old notification.

Thank you, Lieutenant.

He pressed the lock button and hurled the phone on the empty passenger seat, running a still slightly shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah, you fucking better.”

_Connor could have died. For real, this time. He’s mortal now and maybe a little too unaware of that, a little too eager still to do what he was made to do, a little too trigger happy, and when he gets himself killed next, what then, there’s no cyberlife left to send a replacement there’s no_

_Really, Connor could have died? **YOU** could have died, you useless fucking_

His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. Never a dull moment.

Found him.

Apartment complex a 4100 Chrysler.

  
  


“Oh, come the fuck on!” the target whined as they made eye contact.

Connor had managed to sneak up close - but the target had possibly heard the cracking of frozen grass under his shoes. Now he ran. Connor pursued.

Target was slower over the current terrain - uncertain in his footsteps. Connor’s speed was affected too as his weight caused him to sink into the snowy mud even with his attempts at calculating the optimal path.

Target climbed over a downed tree. Vanished from sight.

Connor reached the tree. Propped his hands on it. Hurled his legs sideways and forward. His feet made contact and slid onto the frozen ground - he grabbed onto a branch of the fallen tree and steadied himself. Three lost seconds.  
// Shit.

He looked around. Target was located again - running towards the neighbourhood ahead. Connor followed.

There was an incline to the terrain leading down - the human was slow and uncertain navigating it - he was attempting to run down as if it were stairs. Connor reached the top of the incline - he put his left foot front - his right foot behind - leaned back - he slid down the frosted incline; he leaned further back; he sank his fingers into the ground to slow down.

Target was significantly slower as he attempted to run down the parking lot.

Connor pursued at full speed - closing in. 

He outstretched his left hand.

His fingers grabbed onto the fabric of the target’s jacket.

He pulled back.

He pushed front with his right hand.

Target lost balance; he tumbled forward; he fell.

Connor allowed himself to collapse with. His knees hit the ground. He locked his body in place so as to not collapse onto the target. He grabbed onto the target’s left wrist with his left hand. He rotated the arm to the small of his back. He pinned it down with his own.

“Get off! Fuckin’ android!”

Connor ignored the target’s protests. He grabbed his right arm mid flail. He pulled it to the target’s back and immobilized it as well.

He leaned over - his face in front of the target’s. He nodded firmly.

“You are under arrest for resisting arrest.”

  
  


Slowing down, Hank clumsily closed the distance between them with whatever stamina he had left. Connor had straightened his back and stared blankly ahead, his brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, his lower lip cradled under his upper as if whatever he had just said was a philosophical question for the ages.

With a heavy pat on the plastic shoulder, Hank chuckled, “Good-- Good work.” His chest ached with the breaths and his legs stung with the sudden effort, but he’d done it, he ( _almost_ ) kept up. He doubled over, leaning his hands against his knees, wheezing.

Connor turned his head slowly, mechanically, looking at him with a canted head and slightly furrowed brows. Jarring, really. As if the chase overrode whatever humanity had started flourishing within him. Prey to his own instincts.

“You did good,” Hank nodded at him, although his chest didn't quite appreciate the actions.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Hank stood up, his muscles tensing with the movement. Breath still left him violently enough to sting his dried airways. He patted his pockets for the phone, and once located, pulled it out, redialing.

“Lieutenant Anderson. I’ll need that cruiser at… ah shit,” he looked around.

“St. Antoine 4100-4334, Rosedale Apartments, South entrance, parking lot, behind building seven.”

“-at Rosedale on Antoine, Southern lot, building seven.”

He mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ to Connor as he awaited the dispatcher’s confirmation.


	42. Wake up, Lieutenant

"No. Under no circumstances. I will not have it, Hank.”

Crossed would be a weak word to Jeffrey Fowler’s state of spirit upon that moment. ‘On the verge of an aneurysm’ would be more appropriate.

Hank laid back in the leather chair, crossing his arms, lips pressed together, pouting as if he were a damn child, with Jeffrey certainly filling in the role of the scolding parent rather nicely, leaning forward over the desk, not-quite-yelling yelling.

“You call Dispatch from your own fucking phone. You tell them your fucking _partner_ is in pursuit. They call me and what can I tell ‘em, Hank?” He pointed with both hands at himself. “ _I_ tell them you’re drunk off your fucking ass, that’s what I tell ‘em. Because I figure one more disciplinary note on your file for that is nothing compared to bringing a fucking civilian, android no less, on the job and calling him your fucking partner! Soon as I’m done with that adventure, I get someone from traffic here shoving a photo in my face asking me isn’t this Anderson’s car? It barreled off the side road onto 75, through the fucking fence, and caused hell of a jam. No injuries, thank God for that or you’d be in front of a judge explainin-- _the hell_ were you thinking?!? Told him you’re drunk, but here I am looking at you and you’re the most sober I’ve seen you in years,” he hissed that last word. “And after you pull all that shit, you come here and tell me you want the android in the fucking interrogation room with you!”

Hank lifted his fingers off his arm for long enough to give a small shrug. “I could use his input. He’s done interrogations before.”

“Let me restate. He’s a fucking civilian. I can’t just let a civilian assist a police interrogation. It’s not how it’s done. The contract that allowed him to assist before? A prototype mobile forensic analysis unit to be voluntarily offered by CyberLife for aid in exchange for access to data so that they may improve it. No more CyberLife, no more contract, no more mobile forensics unit.”

“Make him a cop, then.”

“Jesus, Hank, it’s not that fucking easy! They don’t just- They aren’t legally people. They cannot work. It sucks, I know it sucks, believe me I would love to work with people that don’t bitch as much as you lot, but it can’t be done.”

“What about the android girl at the coroner’s?”

“Are you listening to me?”

“How is she allowed to work?”

“You are starting to piss me off. Genuinely.” He ran a hand over his head. “We had to take it up, we had to petition the damn President to get her here, and she qualifies as a fucking volunteer.”

“Well why don't you-”

“Jesus Christ, Hank. You bitch for years that you don’t need a partner, that you don’t want one, you bitch for years about those fucking androids, and now you bitch that you can’t work without that plastic asshole.”

“He’d do a better job than me.”

“I’ve no doubt about that. A fucking conch shell could do a better job.”

Hank leaned forward, “then let him in that room. Petition the President, whatever. This case needs him. Without him, this will all go to hell. What do you have to lose? We’ve done worse.”

“Hank… Listen,” he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, then looking towards Hank. “Do you watch television? I watch television. Every fucking day they talk about the fucking androids. Every day, some politician is debating their rights and how since they’re born to be subservient do we really need to grant them anything. Every day some army general is debating invading Detroit and destroying the factories because the protests were a declaration of war on America. Every day, they talk about the land of the free, just not for fuckin’ robots. Every day, we relive history. Every single damn day, I wake to an e-mail from Markus compiling all the crimes for the previous day and I am sympathetic to him, I really am, but there is nothing I can do to help him. I send men, and I get, look at this shit,-”

Leaning one hand the table, he bent over, fishing for something in the countless filing boxes. He unceremoniously slapped a handful of nondescript yellow folders on the table, hitting the side of his open palm against them. “Look at this shit, Hank.”

It took him a moment to comply, waiting to see if it was all for show or a genuine invitation to read. The case appeared to be the latter, and Hank gathered a handful of the scattered papers, tapping them against the table to line them up, and began browsing them. One. Ten. Twenty, give or take, at different addresses. Damage to property, no personal injuries. Damage to city property, no personal injuries. Arson, damage to property, no human victims. 

“Jeffrey, what the fuck are these?”

“Dead fucking androids, Hank.”

Hank buried his forehead in a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighed. “‘No personal injury’? ‘No human victims’?”

“Half the fucking force is giving me attitude. We get a call on a burned down android, we send the body down to legal, they pull out the memory card, we find the fucks that did it, we go after them, and the file on my fucking desk says ‘property damage’ and they get a fine if even that, maybe two months on a really good day. I get a dozen of these if not more a day, I send maybe one a week your way whenever it’s not an easy fix, and you go and tell me all of those are fucking linked, act as if people abusing androids is something noone’s ever thought of.”

“It’s not just-”

“I don’t care what it isn’t, Hank. What it _is_ , is you doing- all- all _this_. All of this shit. All- you know what? I’m gonna say it. You’re gonna hate me and I’m gonna break protocol and training and common fucking sense and piss on the corpse of our friendship but I’m gonna fucking say it.”

Hank winced.

“You’re not the man you used to be, and it’s awful for me to drag this up. I can’t begin to imagine how that must feel like, losing your son like that. And for four years I’ve watched you drag that weight into the station, drop it into your chair like a dead dog, lug it to a bar, sleep with it, repeat the next day. You’d occasionally kick it off for a moment or two, and I’d get my hopes up, but at the end of the day, you’d stumble upon it again and pick it up and brush it off and drop it on your shoulders to continue rotting. And I’ll admit, I have no idea how to help, if I could’ve helped, even, at any point. Part of that stench is rubbed onto me.”

Hank shifted in his seat, quiet.

“I asked our therapists on several occasions what the fuck do you do to someone like that, and was given shit about the stages of grief, the healing process. But what’s there to heal, I fucking wonder, when you’ve been nothing but an empty husk. When half of you died that day, in that damned accident, the better half, the brilliant half, the man I used to call my friend. I barely recognize the half that’s left, driving drunk to crime scenes, leaving cases unsolved, smelling the wrong leads then dropping cases altogether, dead at my doorstep. Better detectives have bitched to me that I keep you a Lieutenant when they’d be better at it, and I have nothing to tell them, nothing but repeat that bullshit about giving you time, about the ‘healing process’... Life’s a constant fucking process, that’s hardly any reassurance to anyone.”

When Hank finally gathered himself to speak, his tone was battered, defeated. “You’re right… You’re right.” 

He breathed in deeply. In silence, he moved a hand to his jacket, unbuttoning it, sliding his hand underneath the hem. The thick leather and lukewarm metal inlay felt familiar against his fingers, and he slid the badge out of the pocket and jacket. He waved it towards the Chief of Police, resting his wrist against the table. “I’ll just do this. Since you’re not-”

“No,” Jeffrey interrupted quietly. “Put that back, Hank.”

Any and all hostility had ceased between the two, the heavy air cleared, the crops watered, whatever dramatic metaphor. They watched each other for a long, quiet moment. Just two old tired fools who’d once been friends, who’d once been close, with the heavy shadow of that closeness hanging between them. 

“So you complain I’ve gone to shit, but complain I wanna quit, too?”

“Believe me, with the shit going on now, every fucking morning I drive here with the intent to hand in mine, too, just fuck the Police, fuck it all, let someone else handle this crap. But there’s no one else, Hank. No one else that wants to handle this shit. No one else that wants to do a proper job of it. And now, more than ever, I need a good man in the Force, I need someone to put their damn money where their mouth is, and put someone behind bars for this bullshit. And the only man I have that would ever willingly do that has his head up his ass and his ass up in the clouds, Hank. The car is speeding down the hill and you’re asleep at the fucking wheel, and I need you to wake the fuck. up. and grab it. Now more than ever. I need my Lieutenant back. I… Wait, wait…”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. With a defeated sigh, he slumped forward slightly, his tone tired as he continued. 

“If I get you your metal cop officially, this ends. All,” he gestured with an open hand, “all this shit, all this breaking rules, all this ‘cool cop, shit cop’ act. I petition the fucking President, I’ll set a historic precedent for you, for old times’ sake, but you get your head out of your fucking ass. How’s that?”

Hank ran his fingers through his hair. Head out of his fucking ass, should be easy-ish. He ran his thumb over the metal decorations of his badge. His cogs had started shaking some of that rust and alcohol off, it was all a matter of learning to use his fucking head again. But the case?

No, that wasn’t going to...

No, Jeffrey was right.

This case would have been piss easy for him years ago.

He breathed deeply, “I’ll need him on the case, Jeffrey. I know nothing about these fucking things, about how any of that works, he’s helped a lot.”

“Look… I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you just now... Take all the evidence you need home, it’s shoddy police work but you’ve done worse. Take him to the crime scenes if you have to and find a way to hide him in the open. But if the journalists see him or, heaven forbid, you let your mouth loose to Dispatch again, I-”

He sighed deeply, the sigh of a man as old and exhausted as Hank, and leaned back into the chair.

“I don't know. I don't even fucking know how to blackmail you anymore. You don't give a shit about losing your job, the case, anything… Just… If the wrong people catch this, everyone’s fucked. You, me, him, the androids, whatever you still care about, everyone.” He half heartedly waved a hand. “You had the bright idea to fan the flames, so at least have the common courtesy to piss on them a little. So I suggest you go take an actual fucking cop with you for now and get that guy talking.”

  
  


“You worked for CyberLife, correct?”

“Sure, yeah, before they laid off everyone on the factory floor and androids replaced us, yeah,” with that, the suspect shifted in his seat, crossing his arms. Indifferent, aloof, the tryhard version where his eyes showed unease he couldn’t just as easily pretend away. 

Hank pulled the empty chair and sat in, throwing the folders on the table, leaning back, crossing his arms. “Would you say you still hold a grudge?”

“I mean, apart from the fact I was unemployed and piss poor for three years and had to couch hop, no, no I got no grudge.”

“You have a pretty big house for someone who used to couch hop.”

“I came into some money. Inheritance. Alright? I ain’t done nothing illegal to get it.”

“Then why run from the police?” Hank canted his head and shrugged nonchalantly. “Morning exercise?”

“No comment.”

“Nobody with nothing to hide would run from the cops over the interstate.” Hank leaned his elbows on the table. “So I think you do in fact have something just burning to get out, hm? A bit of guilt perhaps?”

Silence.

Hank looked down at the folders next to him. He opened the top one, turning the first sheet around ( _photos of the poor yarn girl_ ) to face the suspect.

“Have you ever seen this woman?”

He scoffed. “It's an android. All androids look the same.”

“Don’t play clever with me. Have you seen this exact android in this exact position, in this exact place?”

“No.”

Pushing the first sheet aside, Hank glanced at the second. A photo of the crackhouse murder. 

“What about this one?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.” Pushing that sheet aside, Hank glanced at the one underneath ( _the mural girl_ ) and turned it around. “What about this one?”

“No.”

Hank pushed the papers back and, perfectly and gently controlled, closed the folder flap over them. He entwined his hands over it, looking the suspect straight in the eye. “Listen. I know what you and your ‘wolf’ gang do for a hobby, the whole android arson business, so we won’t be dropping this. We’ll go after each one of you until one squeals. And by then, it’s gonna be an actual crime, and you’ll do actual jail time, so I suggest you start talking.”

“Even if I were part of a gang, you’d be reaching with that threat.”

“Oh, you think so?” Hank feigned surprise as he leaned back into the chair, crossing his arms once more.

“I’d do nothin’ illegal,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “Besides, last I checked, police interrogations are pointless shite, grasping at straws. You got nothin’, officer.”

“Oh, but I do.” With a one-sided smirk, Hank canted his head condescendingly. “One of your buddies had a guilty conscience and told me about your gang’s business. And because of that? They’ve walked back out of this station, not a worry in the world, trading that little top for dropped charges.”

“He lied to get off easy, you got tricked, officer.”

“Yeah, it’s possible,” Hank shrugged. “It’s also possible they didn’t. And they’re gonna be getting immunity, along anyone else who’s willingly coming forward. And you know what I think? I think you really want some of that, too. So, let’s try this again, hm?” 

He pulled another yellow folder from the small pile, opening it, picking up the first paper, glancing at it. Male android, hull too badly damaged by cuts and abrasions to display much of the synthetic skin, and whatever was left was of a rich brown. “This one’s naked,” Hank placed the printed paper down facing the suspect, and looked towards him as well. “Real classy, that detail. Got any opinion on that?”

The suspect shrugged, indifferent.

“Yeah, didn’t think you would. You’re a very calm and collected man. No strong opinions either way.”

Silence.

Hank turned the second paper around towards the suspect. Immediately, he narrowed his eyes and shifted in the seat.

“A girl,” Hank quietly looked at the photoset, himself. Once more, badly damaged, once more, naked, and once more, dark skinned. “You like girls, Grant? Are they more your type? Android girls are very pretty, aren’t they?”

Shrug.

“Yeah, I’m not much into them either.”

Hank pulled another paper from the folder, looking at it. Another female, her head area intact and triggering uncanny recognition within Hank, her long reddish hair stained with soot, while the rest of her body was maimed by blunt force and disfigured by burns. “What about this one? This one’s even prettier.”

He flipped the paper around, and once more, the suspect tensed up as if a carrot got stuck up his ass. A moment later, he’d just about relaxed, but that slip had been telling enough.

Hank pursed his lips, raising his brows. “Nothing?”

Shrug.

“Alright, fuck it.” He began gathering the stray papers and folders. “You say you’re clean, you’re clean, nothing I can do about that.” He made a show of picking up his toys and getting out of the chair, heading to the door. “I’d think about the offer, if I were you. A guilty conscience weighs heavy.”

Nothing.

Hank pressed his palm against the door’s scanner.

  


He dropped onto the chair, throwing the folders on the little wall table. Sighing, he pulled out the middle folder, holding it out towards Gavin.

“He knows something about these. Go do whatever. Make the boss happy.”

“So, you actually have an inside tip?” 

“Yeah. Sure.”

“From who? Never saw you bring anyone in recently.”

Rolling his eyes, Hank responded with a sigh, “I’m not giving you the name, Gavin,” he gestured vaguely towards the one-way mirror and the suspect within, “fellow gang member. Talked outside the station, he just let that tip out. Keep it vague, he’ll think it’s whoever he has a grudge with.”

Not quite amused by it ( _but is he ever amused by anything except his own cheap jokes_ ), Gavin grabbed the paper from his hand and made his way to the adjacent chamber, strutting like the utter cock he was. With a loud smack, he slapped the folder on the table in front of the suspect, opening it.

“Start talking, dipshit.”

Brilliant interrogation technique, Hank mused, leaning back into the chair. 

His smile faded slowly, his mind letting go of the ongoing interrogation and wandering onto greener pastures, ruminating the recent developments. 

  
  


“Hey.”

Connor opened his eyes perfectly on cue, responding with a friendly smile. Hank politely smiled back before settling in the car and slamming the door.

Polite smile was the last thing he felt like in the moment, thus it faded immediately. He rested his hands on the steering wheel and lounged back in the seat, sighing. Connor canted his head inquisitively, and Hank shook his own in a frustrated response.

“He denies knowing anything, and has pretty good alibis for half the evenings we have exact times on.”

"I know.”

It had been typical Connor, in tone and statement, and yet, the answer _should_ have been different. Hank turned his head to look at the android.

“How the fuck?”

“I tapped into the camera server and watched the interrogation.” Connor sat back in the car seat, “I apologize if-”

“You’re _joking_. You can do that?”

“Easily.”

They looked at each other in complete silence for a moment.

“So…” Hank turned to look out the windshield. He shrugged. “What do you think?”

“He is definitely guilty of some of the other android-directed crimes, judging by his deflections. But…” Connor narrowed his eyes, “he is not the man we are looking for.”

“Mmm,” Hank pursed his lips, nodding absently. “That’s what I figured.”

Silence.

He turned the key in the ignition and reversed.

“Anything else you want to add?”

Connor was uncharacteristically quiet for such a scenario, and Hank found himself missing the million words a minute. He changed gear and pulled out of the parking lot.

“Why did you chase him? We knew where he lived, I could’ve called for backup, he wasn’t going to drop off the face of the Earth.”

No answer.

“Connor, what if he was armed? What if he ran to an armed friend? You could get hurt like this, and there’s _nothing_ to do if that happens, not anymore, you confirmed as much.”

And Connor was quiet still.

Hank sighed, “I’m not angry at you, just...” He shook his head, defeated.

With no vigor behind the action, Connor finally shook his head. “I was not concerned with that. I just-”

He hesitated, as if the right terms eluded him too, the correct ways to describe what was going through that little head of his. Hank looked at him, his distraught face, fingers scratching at the back of his other hand. 

“You tapped into Jeffrey’s camera too, didn't you?”

“Markus did not update me. None of them did. I had no knowledge regarding the full extent of the situation.”

Hank turned his attention back towards the road, leaning back into his seat. A thousand words, he thought of saying, and each of those thousand words felt inappropriate, insufficient. Breathing in deeply, he fished for the one word that felt most fitting and morosely threw it out.

“Yeah…”


	43. Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for the wording and topic of this chapter - reminiscent of intention to self harm and dysphoria, on some "robots aren't so different after all" level. Nothing too graphic but if you're sensitive to this content, best keep the heads up in mind.

“Nope.”

Hank crossed the name out; “This guy is out, too;” he crossed another name.

“Honestly, this whole thing is a hard no.” 

He zigzagged the pencil over several lines. 

Connor tilted his head in curiosity.

Hank continued; “I don’t think Leo Manfred was bullshitting, and with all those other files, it all lines up. I’m sure one of these days Gavin will accidentally slip and fall with his knee in the guy’s liver and get some interesting confession, just… Not for _our_ cases.” Hank leaned back in his chair; he tapped the eraser end of the pencil to his teeth; “Is it actually Leo Manfred or is he, like, a Leonard or Leopold?”

“Is that rhetorical or would you like me to look up his birth certificate?”

“Rhetorical.”

He leaned forward once more; he leaned his forehead against his palms. “Maybe we really are looking at this the wrong way. I know I said it before, but…” His voice gradually reduced in volume; he sighed. “Maybe it really is just coincidences. With everything going on, with a larger sample, the odds for pure coincidence increase, don’t they?”

“Correct.”

Hank removed one hand from his forehead; he looked at Connor - still leaning his head against one hand; “Do you have any magic robot wisdom for this?”

Connor shook his head; “I believe they are related.” 

Hank buried his face in both hands again; he sighed.  
// He would listen.  
// He listens to input.

“In fact, I believe we may have missed other links that may perhaps have been classified under the cases they considered easily explainable…”

Connor looked towards Hank - awaiting his response.

“Myeah…” Hank leaned back in his chair. He looked at an undefined spot in the wall. He tapped the pencil to his lips. “Maybe he’s a Leonidas…”

“Want-”

Hank straightened up in his seat; “No. I want this to bother me on my death bed, now.”

He crossed a large X over the entire paper.

Connor tilted his head. “Throwing it out would be more time efficient at this point.”

“This is satisfying, alright?” Hank turned back towards the paper. He began writing on it. Connor mentally mapped out the path of Hank’s hand. {B U L L S H I T.} A very accentuated period. Hank leaned back into the chair; he began coloring in the loops of the B; “Still got the programmer lady, I guess.”

“I guess.”

“Hey, I’m gonna pass by the station;” Having announced that - Hank stood up; “Jeffrey is right. I probably missed something obvious. And you’re right, we probably missed a link somewhere else;” He walked towards the door; he grabbed his coat; “Gonna go review what’s over there. You find something to keep yourself busy with, alright? I’d offer for you to come with, but…”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Want me to get you something?”

“Only if you are stopping for yourself.”

“Sure;” Hank brushed his hands down the front of his jacket; he walked behind the sofa; he propped himself against it and leaned over - pressing a kiss on Connor’s forehead on the right side. “You have fun with your book.”

“I will.” 

Hank headed for the door; he stopped in the doorway and offered a small wave; Connor offered a pleasant smile in turn. The door closed.

  


Silence.

  


Complete silence.

  


Connor closed his book.

He looked straight ahead.

He placed the book down on the couch.

He stood up; he walked towards the kitchen.

He looked out the window at the canal - still. 

He looked at Sumo’s bowls - full. 

He looked at the fridge.

The table.

  


Silence.

  


Alone.

‘Alone’ was still a new concept to him. A concept he had not been designed to handle. He had been made to work with humans - with police officers - with civilians - with overseers - with androids. Even when -alone- he had always had the Garden to wander and Amanda to update. He had never been {truly alone} before Hank began leaving him alone - before Markus had stopped updating him - or even checking in on him. He had never --- _felt_ the implications of {truly alone} - with his thought processes - nobody to ask for input - nobody to engage with in any factor.  
// Alone.  
// Forgotten.  
// Discarded…..  
// Discarded by Hank due to circumstances.  
// Discarded by Markus due to……..  
// _Distrust?_

[ Distrust ]

It had to be Distrust - rightfully earned - events cannot be undone - effects cannot be erased - distrust cannot be deleted - not so easily -- Connor had helped but only after repeatedly harming --- it was logical Markus and the other androids would expect him to at any time turn against them once more ---- as humans say [quote=”History repeats itself”] ----- he could not blame Markus - the conclusion was logical and based on correct risk assessment --- but it did not stop it from……  
// …….Hurting?…..

[ Rejection ]

Rejection…..

Nothing he could do on that level.

Nothing he could do except continue grinding trust.

Repeatedly prove himself. Easier said than done. He was failing at the case -- failing at the one thing he was {entrusted} with --- but this time around it was different from his chosen and calculated failures - this time it-----  
// _Hurt._

\-- physically - in his chest - his thirium pump overworking as if it were a physical threat - as if the regulator had been once more ripped out of his chest --- and there was nothing he could do to stop it this time around - his body reacting to an irrationally presumed fact.

As for the second issue -- he could address THAT one.

Androids commonly managed to pass as human with the right physical changes - he had done it as well -- 

He located the magnetic rack where the knives hung; he pulled one off. He ran his index finger over his temple.

He had [ stupidly ] [ foolishly ] [ misguidedly ] kept his LED indicator past the point almost all androids had discarded it. It was a part of him - but there were other flawed parts of him -- and removing this could ----

It could make a difference.  
// I could be a human.

He walked towards the bathroom.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror.

The LED was red - a constant light - he had expected as much -- considering the haywire pump regulator [ should address the script for that after ]

It would be better gone - a defect - a flaw - it did not matter it was a part of him - nor that he had gotten attached to it -- it would help him pass if it were gone.

He gritted his jaw; he clenched the knife; he lifted his hand to his head level. Warm fingers touched his shoulder.

He swiftly turned around.

“Woah, woah;” Hank stepped back and held his open hands up to the sides of his shoulders in a defensive stance; “Easy, there.”

“I thought you left.”

“Forgot my wallet. Came back, didn’t see you ‘round the house, came to see what you were doing.”

“Well? Did you locate your wallet?”

Hank - hands still raised - narrowed his eyes; “I… did, yes;” he lowered his hands slightly; “What are you up to?”

“Nothing.”

“You can tell me;” Hank spoke in a soft tone.

“It’s nothing.”

“I do think it’s something;” he lowered his hands further; he nodded slowly; “And I think you want to get it off your chest. I think it will help.”

“Hank, really, it’s nothing;” Connor shrugged slightly with both hands to the side; “I was… thinking.”

“Mhm;” Hank pressed his lips together. He held his right hand out - palm upright - and gestured with his fingers; “How about you give me that knife, Connor? I’ll put it here to the side. You can take it a bit later, alright? When you’re done thinking.”

Connor looked at his hand.

The knife. Hank perceived it as a weapon. Hank erroneously read a human emotion and reaction in the circumstances.

Connor rolled the knife in his hand - still looking at it; “It’s not what you assume.”

“I assume you're holding a knife, turned around quickly, and could have accidentally hurt yourself, or me;” he gestured with his hand again; “Would you like to give it to me while we talk? Just to be-”

Connor clenched his left hand into a fist as he raised it next to his head [in frustration?]; “ _Don’t._ use. deescalation techniques on me.” He loosened his left fist. “I’m fine. I wasn't going to - I know what it looks like. I am aware, seeing how you respond to it. I-- merely thought I would pry off the LED, and it would - I could pass as human. I could avoid getting you in trouble again. I could show up on crime scenes as a witness or……. _something.”_

Hank’s tone remained warm and collected; “Connor, that is… it’s an interesting train of thought, but they can tell in other ways.” He spoke even calmer; “All they’d have to do is shake your hand. There is no reason for you to hurt yourself-”

“It would not hurt. It cannot hurt. It would be a simple action. It would barely leave a mark, not noticeable at all, just a scratch if anything.”

“Connor-”

“It would solve so many issues if only I could just look like normal people, not bear a mark of what I was made like. All the other androids did this long ago, I just-- It wouldn’t hurt, I should--”

“Connor…”

Connor pressed his knuckles against his temples; he shut his eyes; he inhaled and exhaled sharply in frustration; “I know what I sound like, I sound like I--”

“You sound like someone in distress. Someone who hurts a little too much, and doesn’t quite know what to do with all that pain yet;” Hank took a shaky breath; “I imagine it’s hard, still discovering new feelings and new thoughts, still a stranger to the world and all the ways others have learned to navigate it. I imagine it’s hard to not know what to do to stop the pain and the confusion. And I know it feels like you have no choice, like you have to do this, like it’s the only way. And I won’t stop you. But don’t do it as an impulse… give it a little thought, talk it through, at least give it a minute or two.”

Connor reluctantly nodded; he lowered his hands; he grabbed the blade of the knife with his left hand; he held the knife out with the handle towards Hank.

“Okay;” Hank’s stance shifted and relaxed - his voice remained warm and quiet - non confrontational - as he grabbed the knife with his left hand - his other hand open and in view; “Okay, I’ll put it here, on the cabinet, and you take it after we talk a little, alright?”

Connor nodded - avoiding eye contact. He heard the distinct sound of the wooden handle being placed onto the wooden surface.

“Tell me.”

Connor shook his head; “It’s irrational.”

“It usually is. Tell me anyway.”

“It…. hurts? That I cannot help you. That Markus does not trust me enough to update me directly. That-- that I cannot do anything to change this. That it may be years until, if ever, until….--”

“Hey, I know this will sound like bullshit, especially right now and especially from me, but try not to worry about all that. You cannot predict the future, you cannot save the whole world. One step at a time now, one day at a time. Or an hour, or five minutes, or if all you have the power to focus on is one single breath, then take that one breath. Can you do that?”

“Androids do not breathe.”

Hank sighed; “Figurative. Focus on… whatever equivalent of a single breath is for you. It’s hard, it hurts, but just focus on something small and singular.”  
// But there’s nothing small.  
// Nothing singular.  
// A ‘breath’...... 

Connor shut his eyes; he drew air in and expanded his chest to the maximum capacity - ultimately and utterly pointless action - but _voluntary._ Something he could control in all this. He let the air out slowly. He opened his eyes to meet Hank’s.

Hank reached a hand out directed at Connor's cheek.

Connor dodged; he wiped the cheek with his own fingers; he looked at them - wet….. “Not this again.”

“Well... ain’t that relatable...”

Connor looked towards Hank once more; he looked down at his wet fingers; he shook his head; “I apologize. I’m being extremely irrational.”

Hank lifted his hand; he laid it on Connor’s right shoulder; he pressed his lips together tightly; “Can I help?”

“I do not see how you could help me with acting more irrational, but I-”

“Can I help you feel better?”

“I don’t believe you could do more than you already have.”

“Connor…” Hank sighed; “Tell me.”

Connor shook his head hesitantly.

“You don't want to tell because it hurts too much, or because you don't quite understand it, yourself?”

“It’s both. I just… It _hurt,_ Hank, it hurt that I cannot do anything, that I was cast aside, and it shouldn't hurt- I _know_ it’s emulating human emotions but I don't know how to stop it and I don't understand why it physically _hurts_ and-” Connor ran his hands through his hair; he looked up at his partner; “Am I still crying?”

“You can’t tell?”

Connor shook his head. He pressed his lips together.

“Well,” Hank tilted his head forward; “now you are.”

Connor broke eye contact; “I’m sorry, I entirely forgot about this function and to look for a way to turn it off, I…” He shook his head - as if it would return the familiar pattern of purely logical thoughts.

“Yeah… Pretty sure us humans would love to do that, too.”

Hank’s warm hand touched Connor’s cheek again - and this time he permitted it. He permitted his partner to wipe his cheeks dry. He permitted his partner to step closer and kiss his forehead and he pushed his head into the kiss. Hank’s hands let go of his cheeks; they encircled his body and pulled him into an embrace. Connor placed his arms around the human as well; he gave himself permission to lean his head onto the man’s shoulder; Hank pressed his lips onto his head.

Tone:neutral; “Go back to work. I apologize for keeping you.”

“You think I’m gonna leave you like this? Alone? With knives?”

“Hank, if I wanted to harm myself I would have taken your spare gun or taken a walk off the pier. I am alright.”

“Mm.”

Connor pulled back from the embrace; he looked at his partner’s face; “I am alright. I am thinking completely rational now.”

Hank sighed. He displayed a halfhearted smile. He attempted to brush Connor’s hair along the others. “Stubborn as always, hm?” He opened his mouth to speak again but closed it; he breathed deeply; he attempted to speak again - this time successfully; “Want to come with me? Not… not to the station, Jeffrey’s gonna skin me alive for that. Just… for a drive. Clear your head a bit.”

“Thank you, for the offer and for your companionship;” Connor placed his hands firmly on Hank’s shoulders. “But I believe I will go for a walk. Likely with Sumo.”

Hank sighed; he pursed his lips.

Tone:reassuring; “I will be alright.”

Hank paused; he nodded reluctantly; he whispered; “Okay.”

“I will see you when you are back from the station;” Connor tapped Hank’s shoulders once - reassuringly. 

Hank exhaled; “You better.”

Connor displayed a slight smile.


	44. Out of Sight,

  
02/02/2039 18:43:11

The weather was a fine sleet with moderate wind - ice crystals which clung and froze to surfaces - including clothing and skin - a type of weather which was universally reviewed negatively. Thus Connor was the only person in the small leisure park - all humans avoiding being outside.

“Yo, dude, got a smoke?”  
// Most humans.

Connor wiped the sheet of ice off his cheeks; he pulled the beanie hat lower; he turned his head. The man talking to him [Logan, Kaenan; b. 12/12/2012] stood huddled against the weather - cap and hoodie were pulled low over his face to shield it - hands in his pockets - legs and feet tightly pressed together - bending his knees slightly - fidgeting in place. 

“Yeah, one sec;” Connor shoved his hand in his right jacket pocket; he pulled out a half emptied pack.

“Ahh, thanks, man;” the human pulled a hand out of a pocket and picked a cigarette.

“Take the whole thing;” Connor offered.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“God bless, man.” The human grabbed the pack - shoving the whole thing in his jacket pocket; he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand; he put the whole hand in his pocket; he grimaced against the elements.

Connor wiped his cheeks once more.

The human turned to look towards the street. He hissed a sigh through his teeth. He turned to Connor; “The hell you doing out here, anyway?”

“Dog loves the cold;” Connor nodded his head towards Sumo - currently digging in the snow.

“Oh…” The human turned his attention back towards the street; “Fuck’s sake.”

“Not going indoors?”

“Bros were supposed to pick me up;” the human said absently. After a pause - he turned his head towards Connor once more; “You look familiar. Got that familiar face thing going on. Trying to place where I’ve seen you. Work? School? Help me out, it’s murdering me.”

“I come to this park daily.” Connor wiped the freezing water off his cheekbones once more; “And I regularly give you cigarettes.”

The man offered a noncommittal grin; “Ah yea… yea;” he snapped his fingers in Connor’s direction; “Yeah… Connor, right?”

Connor nodded politely; “Correct.”

“Yea, man, Christ;” the man slapped his forehead; “I’m faceblind. Like, no joke, I can’t even recognize my own Momma sometimes; and with this shitty wind I didn't recognize your voice either and that’s like double fucking blind;” he raised his hand and pointed towards Connor; “no hard feelings, bro?”

Connor shook his head; he shrugged; “It’s cool.”

“Cool, cool. Imma go see where the fuck they are;” he gestured towards the street and began walking away.

Connor turned his head to check on Sumo - still digging - having reached dirt.

“Ey!” The man yelled - and Connor turned to look - he was pointing towards Connor; “You’re a pretty bastard by the way!”

“Thanks!” Connor raised his brows; “You swing that way?”

The human paused in confusion for three seconds; “Wh- Nahh, nah, man;” he took his arms out of the pockets and gestured to the sides; “Can’t I tell a homie he’s pretty?” He ended the gesture with a salute.

Connor tilted his head forward; he waved goodbye.

  


  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send   
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Found out Markus has not kept me updated.** ”);  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send   
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **With all the android-directed violence.** ”);   
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send   
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **With the policies and negotiations.** ”);   
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send   
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Come to think of it, with anything.** ”); 

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **does it matter?** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **not like you give full reports to him** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **or to your human for that matter** ”  


  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send   
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **He needed time to adjust.** ”);   
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send   
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **He had enough issues of his own.** ”);   


  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **it’s funny** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **markus said the exact thing about you** ” 

  


Connor pushed the convenience store door open.

The clerk [Stevens, Jackson, b. 06/06/1978] looked up from the old fashioned till.

“Shit, it’s Tuesday, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The clerk put his hands on his head; “Shit, I forgot to tell Bobby to move the big one.”

“It’s alright, Mister Stevens. I told you before I can handle it;” Connor pointed towards Sumo; “Mind if I leave him inside today? The ground is freezing.”

Jackson Stevens made wide gestures with his arm; “Not at all, not at all. Get him up here by the counter.”

Connor accepted the invitation; he looped the leash around a leg of the counter; he clipped it back onto Sumo’s collar. He straightened his back; he nodded his head towards the employee door; “I’ll be out back, then.”

“Said it’s freezing, eh? Could you salt the driveway tonight, then? There’s a big sack left of the door.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good lad.”

Connor offered a polite smile. 

He headed towards the employee door; through the small back office and deposit; he propped the back door open with the sack of salt. Four normal recycle bins - he made sure he had them all rolled outside by the curb. He looked around. The streets were empty - no witnesses - and Jackson Stevens was still at the till - and the security camera footage was only ever checked if there was an incident. He would not have to go out of his way to pretend to struggle to pull out the rubbish bins - and thus it was a quick task. Once completed - he brushed his hands over his jacket to straighten it.

He grabbed the salt sack; he walked all the way to the curb; he threw fistfuls of the salt all over [not too evenly]. He backtracked towards the door; he placed the bag back inside; he closed and secured the door; he made his way back to the store. 

“Done already?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stronger than you look, eh?” Jackson Stevens gave a hearty chuckle. “Here;” he produced a $20 bill out of his pocket; he placed it on the counter; “Grab yourself what you wanted, then.”

Connor browsed the shelves despite having already decided long before what he would take. Two beers + two packs of chocolate coated cookies + a carton of milk [full fat] + a carton of orange juice + a carton of six eggs. Total 13.32 not including the bag. He placed them on the counter and awaited patiently for their scanning.

“A bag too?”

“Yes, please.”

“Mmmhm;” Jackson Stevens turned around to grab a paper bag off their designated hook; he reached for additional items - and placed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the counter; “Nasty habit, this. You should quit it. Come to think of it, dunno how you’re at all in shape putting all this junk in ya;” he placed the $20 bill atop of the groceries.

“Sir, I can’t-”

“I insist. You help out plenty.”

“Sir,-”

“You pay me back when you get that job of yours, alright?”

Connor nodded with some hesitancy. He grabbed the pack of cigarettes; he put it into his right side jacket pocket.

“Shame, really. Polite young lad like you struggling like this. Been awful on the job market with them androids around;” he shook his head and began bagging the items. “Sure you don’t want to work here full time? At least until you move up.”

“I need the extra time to study.”

“Yeah, yeah, well, between you and me, I’d rather you’d replaced Jesse;” he winked and smiled for the inside joke.

Connor smiled and exhaled a sharp breath - feigning humanlike amusement.

“Here you go, kid;” Jackson Stevens pushed the full bag across the counter. “Don’t come tomorrow morning, we’ll manage to roll them back in.”

“Do you need more help tonight, sir?” Connor asked; he leaned over and undid the knot in the leash.

“Nah, you have the evening to yourself. Have a good one.”

“You too, sir;” he rolled the leash over his hand onto his wrist; he grabbed the bag with two hands - accounting for the heavy liquids.

“Actually, hold on, hold on;” Jackson Stevens leaned under the counter; he retrieved a large bag; “Could you take care of Miss Willis’ grocery run, while at it?”

“Of course, sir;” Connor grabbed the second bag. “Have a good evening.”

“Yeah, you too, lad.”

  


  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send   
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **I could have helped.** ”); 

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831: < br />  
“ **you’re helping with the cop stuff** ” 

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Not particularly.** ”); 

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:< br />  
“ **you said it not me** ” 

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send   
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **He still doesn’t trust me.** ”); 

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **you’re being dramatic** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **he authorized access for you into carl’s house** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **he answered all your questions** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **he tried to help with your investigation and software issues** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **he trusts you it’s just…….** "  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **it’s complicated** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **he doesn’t even know what he’s doing half the time** ”

  


Connor stopped at the intersection. He lowered Miss Willis’ bag onto the curb; he placed the second bag next to it; he took the beer bottles out and left them on the ground; he rolled Sumo’s leash off his hand and onto one of the bottles - a suggestion to stay put - one the dog generally obeyed.

He quietly walked down the rocky driveway and onto the porch - avoiding the planks that creaked - and quietly left the bag in front of the door. He walked away just as quietly.

Once back onto the driveway - near the curb - he picked up two stones [approximated to be the correct size]. He threw one - hitting the doorbell button. Successful from the first go [generally was] - he jogged back towards Sumo.

A child’s voice resonated from within the house; “It’s Santa again!”

A second child’s voice responded; “Don’t be stupid, it’s February.”

“Well, then, who is it, huh, smarty pants?”

The door opened. One of the children - the boy - stepped out with one bare foot - and grabbed the bag - peeking into it. “It’s the Easter Bunny. He left eggs.”

“Yeah well, Easter is in April!”

“And Christmas is in December!”

The boy ran inside - leaving the door to close by itself.

The door opened again - the mother stepping out with one foot onto the porch. She looked around the area. She always did - for a good thirty seconds - and Connor always saw the mixed look on her face - the sad smile - but she never saw him - he made sure to position himself in the optimal area to avoid her detection. She walked back in and closed the door.

  


  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **You are right. I am being irrational.** ”);

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **just ask him to tell you from now on since it bothers you** ”

  


“Evening, Bob.”

Bob Nasse turned around in his tiny stool to look at him; he spat. “Connor! Slap my ass and call me a donkey, son, didn’t expect ya to pass by in this blizzard.”

“I was in the area.”

“Yeah yeah. Ye always are, that’s all ya say. Come, come, stay a while;” he gestured at another stool next to him.

“I’m running some errands. Just wanted to pass by and see the progress.”

“Aye, she’s comin’ along nicely, ain’t she?” the human turned his head again; Connor looked in the same direction. 

There was the frame of a small sailboat propped on wooden logs; the human had begun hammering the planks of the body since Connor’s last visit.

“She’s a beaut, she is;” the human spat again through badly decayed teeth. “I’ll have ‘er ready by spring. Gonna sail the Lakes with my Martha, gonna go out fishin’ again. You better come with me.”

“I’ve never gone sailing.”

“All the more reason to, then! Say, can you help me out with that big log while you’re here? I wanna prop it up to paint it properly but it’s too damn heavy.”

“Of course.”

Bob Nasse struggled to get up from his stool. He walked towards a long and thick tree trunk. He pointed at a row of four sawhorses already prepared for the job of propping it up. 

“Think we can handle it together?”

“Yeah;” Connor bent over and grabbed onto one end of the log. “Ready when you are.”

The old man picked up the other end; they lifted together - and Connor adjusted the angle in such a way that most of the weight rested towards his end. They rolled it onto the sawhorses. Task completed - the man brushed his gloved hands together. 

“Great job, eh? Thanks, son;” he walked back to his stool. 

“Here;” Connor pulled one of the beer bottles out of the bag. “Thought you might want a refresher.”

“Ah, you spoil me. Sit, sit. I insist. Drink with me.”

“I don’t drink, remember?”

“Not planning to start?”

“No.”

“Bah, don’t know what’s good;” the human pressed the bottle cap against his eye socket - he opened it - a trick that still amused Connor with its novelty and apparent improbability. He offered the old man a grin in response.

“Yer like my Martha, you are. Don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t do none of those. Bring a bottle home to your boyfriend every time, though. And here, helping an old man;” he shook his head; he took a large gulp; he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ye got a good heart. People with good hearts are so rare. Pure damn gold. Rare, and valuable;” his voice cracked; he took another large sip; “Listen to me, talkin’ like the old fool I am. Wanna come in at least? Martha’s been makin’ her apple crumb pie, whole damn neighbourhood wants in on that one.”

“I really appreciate the invitation, but I should be going home.”

“Yeah, yeah, you do that;” he lifted his beer bottle in salute.

Connor retrieved the bag off the floor; he rolled Sumo’s leash onto his wrist; he offered a wave before departing.

  


  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **May I ask something else?** ”);

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **go wild** ”

  


He knocked onto the oaken door.

“Miss Willis! It’s me, Connor. I got your groceries!”

“Let yourself in, sugar.”

He reached up on the support beam; he retrieved the spare key; he looped Sumo’s leash around a fence pole; he unlocked the door; he entered the house; he wiped his shoes on the carpet.

Yvonne Willis turned her head away from her television to look over her shoulder - her head was shaking worse in that position - but she always did that when he entered the house.

“Leave them on the countertop, love. Put us some water to boil. I would dearly love some tea.”

“Of course, Miss;” he went into the kitchen and obeyed the commands; “Need help to bed?”

“Son is coming over tonight. He’ll help. Don’t worry, love.”

“Alright.”

Connor took a saucer + a teacup + a teaspoon from the drying rack; he placed them onto the table; he retrieved sugar cubes [she liked 2] and a packet of tea; he poured the scalding-but-not-yet-boiling water in. He gently took the teacup and saucer with him as he walked into the day room.

“You’re an angel;” Yvonne Willis smiled at him; she reached out her trembling hands.

Connor tilted his head forward; “Careful, it’s still hot.”

“You worry too much, Connor;” she smiled; she took the teacup and saucer gently in her emaciated hands. She lowered them in such a way she rested her forearms on her legs - it always reduced the shaking. “You go make one for yourself, too.”

“Already did, Miss. I left it in the kitchen.”

“Say, could I bribe you to take down my Christmas lights this week, love?” She raised her brows at him and added in a joking tone; “I think February is a good time for that.”

“I can do that today, Miss.”

“Had a fight with the boyfriend?”

“He’s working late today.”

“Oh, dear me;” the old woman shook her head.

“He’s _genuinely_ working, Miss Willis.”

“That’s what they all say;” she spoke in a petty tone unbefitting a frail old woman. “Then they leave you for some teen blonde hussy with big honkers and tight puss.”

Connor feigned flustered outrage; “Language, Miss Willis!”

“Mark my words, you’re gonna come here in a week, telling me all about how he worked his way late into the accountant’s office.”

“He’s not like that.”

“I should hope so, or I’m gonna come give him a beating with all that’s left in me;” she shook an already shaky hand.

“No need for that, I hope. Where’s the ladder? I’ll get the lights now.”

“Out by the wall.”

“May I let the dog loose into the backyard while I work?”

“Of course, love;” She called out as he left the room; “Be careful not to slip!”

“Don’t worry about me.”

  


  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **are you going to ask or...** ” 

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send   
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Can humans tell the difference easily?** ”);   
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send   
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Between us and them?** ”);

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **they’re getting better at it yeah** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **most readily recognize markus** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **the more common models are easily recognized too** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **all the sleazy fucks recognize my look** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **simon has had issues** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **he tried to walk into a recruitment agency the other week** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **false id and everything** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **didn’t work** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **there’s always the thermal scanners** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **thermal cameras** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **thermal rifles** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **they get a lot more handsy** "  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **the anti android gangs have handshakes that test for soft flesh** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **most places don’t allow androids in still** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **they’ve been a lot more careful since we took our leds and bands off** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **but generally they can tell sooner or later** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **asking for the case?** ” 

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Kind of** ”);

  


Christmas lights were gathered neatly in their box - the box in Connor’s arms; Sumo was once more leashed and waiting patiently.

“Where should I leave them?”

“Just leave the box by the backdoor, love.”

He obeyed.

“Could you put the cup away, too? Before you go?”

“Of course, Miss;” he walked back into the living room; he reached for the cup.

As he took it - the woman’s warm fingers shakily closed over his; she squeezed the grip; “You’re freezing, love. Make yourself another cup of tea.”

Connor straightened his back; “I’m fine. Forgot my gloves, digging around in the snow wasn’t my brightest idea.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Anything else, Miss?”

“No, angel. Run along before your balls freeze solid, too.”

Connor exhaled with amusement.

Teacup and kettle put away - he opened the door; he dodged what had assaulted his leg - he glanced down - a cat [female, British Shorthair, adult] that was still rubbing onto him.

“Miss Willis? Since when do you own a cat?”

The woman’s voice echoed from the other room; “I don’t. Must be a neighbour’s. Does she have a collar, love?”

Connor picked the cat up; he turned her to face him; he scanned the collar [Moony, 2233 Rock Hill Drive, 313-555-2106]; “Yeah, two streets down, I’ll drop her off on my way home.” He cradled the cat under one arm.

“You have a talk with that boyfriend of yours when you get home, you hear me? Or I will!”

Tone:amused; “I will, Miss Willis. Goodnight!”

He locked the door; he put the spare key back in its place.

  


  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **kind of isn’t a real answer** ”

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **It’s about… all the cases.** ”);  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Our existence in general.** ”);

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **fine** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **we can get philosophical in person if you wish** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **some other day** ”

  


He rang the doorbell.

“One moment!”

He cradled the cat against his chest. The door opened. A woman eyed his face with momentary confusion; she then noticed the cat.

“Oh, oh dear, thank you so, so much, hold her a moment more, please;” she looked over her shoulder; she yelled; “Helen! Come here!”

Connor heard the sound of bare feet descending wooden stairs; a few seconds later a girl of ten years old appeared next to her mother.

“Miss Moony!” the child grabbed the cat from Connor’s arms; she turned around and began walking away; she continued her sentence as she walked back upstairs; “You’ve been a very naughty kitty! No treats tonight!” 

The woman grabbed one of Connor’s hands; “Bless your kind soul. I thought I’d have to give her the whole circle of life talk one of these days. Damn cat always runs out, no matter how much we proof our doors and windows.”

“Not a problem, ma’am;” Connor smiled amiably.

“Wait here, let me grab my purse.”

“Please, don’t, I’ll have to refuse.”

“Oh, bless you;” she patted his hand. “Do you at least want to come in for a cup of cocoa? You’re freezing.”

“I was just heading home. Thank you, anyway;” he nodded respectfully; he retrieved his hand from between hers. “Good evening, ma’am.”

“I can’t thank you enough;” she shook her head; she smiled widely.

  


  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Hey, thank you for the chat.** ”);  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **I truly appreciate it.** ”);

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **no, stop** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **i’m getting all emotional** ”

  


He unlocked the door of Hank’s house. He let Sumo enter first; he pulled the chain collar off his neck. Sumo walked into the kitchen and began loudly drinking water. No car in the driveway and no lights on in the house yet.

Connor took his beanie hat off and placed it on top of the coat rack. He took his jacket off and hung it. He took his shoes off. He walked towards the couch - putting the still cold beer bottle right by it. He then walked to the bookshelves - visually discarding all he had already read and calculating viable alternatives. He grabbed one [light reading, urban fantasy, adventure, romance]; he made his way onto the couch; he pulled his legs up; he crossed them.

He opened the book.

He began reading - word at a time - as humans do.

He paused.

He looked towards the empty and clean fireplace.

He placed the book aside. He stood up.

There was a fire burning in every house he had entered earlier - and there was a burning fireplace on the first page of his new book of choice. And he was cold - all that time outside had indeed lowered his core temperature beneath optimal functioning levels. And Hank would be cold as well once he would get home. And there were some wood and grilling supplies out back by the kitchen window [untouched and likely bought with the house, but there nonetheless].

  


  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Hey, say hello to the others for me.** ”);  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **And have a good night.** ”);

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **alright i’ll ask** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **what’s wrong?** ”

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Nothing. Everything is fine.** ”);

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **last time you said that you went to cyberlife and killed yourself** ”

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **That is not even remotely close to what happened.** ”);

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **my mistake** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **DISCLAIMER: Events presented in this documentary**  
 **have been dramatized for entertainment purposes.** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased,**  
 **or to historic or current events is purely coincidental.** ”

  
RK800-313248317-55.RemoteServices.Messaging.Send  
(Android.WR400-641790831, “ **Goodnight, North.** ”);

  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **you better not do anything dumb** ”  
NORTH@WR400-641790831:  
“ **i better not boot up to an actual documentary on you** ”

  


He heard Hank’s car pull up in the driveway - the engine turning off - the slam of the door - the footsteps coming up to the house - the door unlocking. Connor looked up from his book.

“Hey, sorry it took so long;” Hank spoke in a quiet tone.

He was holding three paper bags from three different outlets. And he had stopped in the middle of undressing - his eyes checking first the couch and second the fireplace. “Hell, I don’t think that’s ever been on;” he placed the bags onto the floor; he undid his jacket. “What’s the occasion?”

Connor shrugged; “Cold evening. I thought you might appreciate the additional warmth.”

“I see;” he hung the jacket onto the rack; “Well, I do.” He walked behind the couch; he placed the bags onto the side table; he leaned over; “Have you been up to anything?” His warm lips pressed against Connor’s hair.

Connor shrugged; “I took Sumo for a walk.”

Hank leaned on the back of the couch with his elbows and crossed forearms; he looked at Connor’s head; “Anything exciting happened?”

Connor closed the book; he established eye contact; “Not particularly.”

“Mm.”

Hank displayed a slight smile; he turned his head to look at the fire. Connor ran a finger back and forth on the edge of the page he paused at.

“I found a lost cat. Returned her.”

Hank turned his head to look at him once more; he was smiling; “That’s sweet of you.”

Connor returned the smile.

Topic consumed - Hank stood up and walked behind the couch; “Got you one of those fancy drinks, but you probably figured that already.”

“Thank you;” Connor spoke warmly.

Hank dropped onto the other side of the couch; he bent slightly as he reached for the beer bottle; “Seems I have to thank you as well;” he held the bottle up towards Connor.

“Want me to open it?”

“Sure;” he held the bottle out; Connor retrieved it; he pushed his thumb against the cap; with a calculated nudge of his thumb nail he pushed the cap upwards; he held the bottle back towards Hank.

“Thanks.”

Hank leaned back against the couch; he pulled the opened cap entirely off; he placed it on the arm rest; he rested his left arm onto the back of the couch; his left thumb touching against Connor’s shoulder and rubbing it slowly; he took a sip; he lowered the bottle. 

Silence.

“You know what would work? Music;” Hank took another sip. Pause. He turned his head to look at Connor; “Why don’t you go pick something?”

Connor set the book aside; he got up; he walked towards the drawer desk where Hank’s disk player and disk collection lay. “Any preference?”

“Whatever. Surprise me;” Hank shrugged.

“I will surprise myself, too;” Connor stated.

“Makes sense.”

Connor picked one of the disk sleeves at random - a dark orange and yellow one - and pulled it out from the stack. 

  
{ Classic Rock Ballads   
[2024 edition, Warner Records];  
}  
Fetching…..   
{   
[Disc 1 Side A:   
The Animals - House of the Rising Sun   
The Mamas & The Papas - California Dreamin’   
AC/DC - Highway to Hell   
Meat Loaf - I’d Do Anything For Love];   
[Disc 1 Side B:   
Nazareth - Love Hurts   
Eagles - Hotel California   
Kansas - Dust in the Wind   
Scorpions - Wind of Change];   
[Disc 2 Side A:   
Simon & Garfunkel - Sound of Silence   
America - The Last Unicorn   
Moody Blues - Nights in White Satin   
Led Zeppelin - Stairway to Heaven];   
[Disc 2 Side B:   
The Police - Every Breath You Take   
Dire Straits - Sultans of Swing   
The Hollies - He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother   
Beatles - Yesterday];   
} 

  


Connor turned around slightly - establishing casual eye contact with Hank; “Pick a number.”

“...Seven?”

Connor pulled out the second disk - placing it first side up; he turned on the record player.

As the music started - Hank exhaled; he displayed a slight smile; “ _Hello darkness, my old friend._ ” He snorted in dry amusement; he lifted the bottle to his mouth and drank.

“You are singing off-key.”

“Mhm;” he lowered the bottle from his mouth; “ _And I always will be._ "

“That one was even worse. Almost failed to correctly recognize it as a song.”

“Say what you will;” Hank raised the beer bottle in Connor’s direction; “You still did. Excellent work, Detective;” he took another sip.

“Thank you, I don’t even try.”

Hank pressed his lips together; “Just to be clear, that was a joke?”

“An attempt.”

Hank shook his head; he chuckled; he took another sip. “I’ll figure you out some day.” Pause. He leaned forward; he lowered the bottle to the floor. “Say, they gave you a fancy software for music. They make you dance, too?”

“Yes.”

“Hm;” Hank pushed himself off the couch; “Is there anything they didn’t give you?”

“Several things come to mind. But I assume you were joking and thus will not detaliate.”

Hank walked closer; “Some other time, if you wish. Too tired to even try to follow, now.”

He held his right hand out with palm facing upwards. Connor looked down at it. Hank had asked about dancing - thus Connor placed his own hand above his. Hank closed his thumb around it. He placed his left hand on Connor’s waist - and Connor placed his right on Hank’s shoulder. There was no dance registered as viable for the remainder of the current song nor the following song - but the position Hank had assumed highly suggested a slow three-step dance - and indeed it was what Hank was erroneously attempting to perform.

“Do you want quiet cooperation or criticism?”

“No third option?”

Connor gave a slight shrug; “I could tell you the history of the cartoon this song was written for? Quote from it?”

“...No fourth option?”

“I could attempt to-”

“You know, watching movies together doesn't sound like a half bad idea. Granted, you probably know all of them, but… Figured since you’re taking to books and music in… ways…” He shrugged and quieted.

“You can call them ‘sensory’ ways if ‘human’ ways feels uncomfortable.”

“Mm.”

Silence.

They continued to slowly move to desynchronized dance steps unbefitting the music - but despite it - there was… intrigue to its novelty - to the closeness of their bodies - Hank’s warmth - his increased pulse - the slight vibrations of his throat muscles as he absentmindedly and quietly hummed along to the song. 

“So, is there a reason we are performing a subpar waltz to rock?”

“Well, first off… much as I love this old crap, you can’t convince me this is rock. They just had a weird definition back then.”

“Out of curiosity, do you prefer more recent power metal to this ‘old crap’?”

“Everything has its place. I can jam to any good song, really. There’s genre purists, but… Life would be quite boring without variety, no?”

Likely rhetorical question.

Connor allowed a moment of silence before speaking; “As for the waltz?”

Hank pressed his lips against Connor’s forehead. They followed another set of steps in silence. 

“Because this is the only damn dance I know.”

Connor exhaled with mild amusement; “I can teach you others, if you desire.”

“Something, something, can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” 

Hank raised his right hand above their heads - Connor’s hand following with - and he spun around - pulling their hands down around his waist. Hank pressed a kiss against his neck - and then pressed his head against Connor’s.

“See?” Hank spoke in a teasing tone; “I know some tricks.”

“Yes. Congratulations, Lieutenant. You know one trick.”

Hank responded with an amused snort.

They had stopped moving - holding the embrace as the song ended - Hank’s right hand slowly running up and down Connor’s right arm. Connor watched the record spin - it was ….. [soothing?] in a strange way - the combination of the repetitive motion of the disk and Hank’s soft and repetitive touch. And the melody that began was equally ‘soothing’. 

“Oh, my mom loved this one;” Hank spoke. “Danced at the prom to this, with dad.”

“You were old enough to remember?”

“I wasn’t even born;” Hank laughed. “But she used to tell me every damn time this song played. And that was hell of a lot, she had this shit on cassette and a lot of time on her hands.” He paused; he sighed.

“It is a… pleasant melody;” Connor offered.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is. Fits some cheesy prom dance, I guess.” Pause. The music continued in the background. “Come to think of it, this fits you, too;” Hank spoke softly; he pressed his head harder against Connor’s; he inaccurately sang along the upcoming lyrics; “ _Beauty I’ve always missed... with these eyes before._ ”

“It does not apply - you’ve had your eyes on me from day one.”

“Oh, hah-hah.”

Hank gripped marginally harder onto Connor’s right hand and moved it away from his body - and Connor followed the suggestion - turning to face him again. 

“What about you?” Hank inquired; he placed his left hand onto Connor’s waist once more - and once more raised their hands to chest level.

“What about me?”

“When did you have your eyes on me?”

Connor shrugged; “You are a decent specimen, physically appealing;” he displayed a coy smile. He did not maintain the smile for long. “It was how you treated me. Even hating androids, you still…”

“It’s wrong, isn’t it? To treat someone like shit just because they’re different.”

“And yet, so many humans would disagree if they knew, if they saw…”

They maintained eye contact in silence until the song ended.

And then, Hank whispered. “Will you show me?”

And there was no need to inquire further clarification. Connor [nervously?] bit onto his lower lip. He turned his head to look at his left hand [held gently within Hank’s slightly larger hand]. He slid his fingers out from between Hank’s and repositioned them, tips barely pressing against those of the human’s. He momentarily glanced towards Hank’s face, but he too was watching their hands. Looking back towards them, taking in a breath [....grounding and control...], he disabled the skin generation for his hand. Bare, [cold, according to humans] hand contrasted against Hank’s. The fact that he had done that thousands of times before - and the fact that Hank had seen him do it - appeared insignificant in the moment. It was a more… [intimate?] unprecedented interaction. Hank took in a shuddered breath; Connor turned his head to look at him - and the eye contact was mutual. As appeared to be the subsequent decision of Connor to lift his right hand to his temple and toggle off the entire outer skin hex. Hank’s heart rate spiked, his body tensed, and his pupils widened - and Connor tensed in response. They maintained eye contact, Hank’s blue eyes darting between keeping fixed onto Connor’s and scanning the rest of his body - the exposed areas at any rate.  
// ….Exposed…  
// Exposed indeed.

And now self conscious of it - Connor raised his hand to his temple once more - keeping eye contact with Hank as he toggled the skin back on and the hex reformed.

“Can’t you toggle the whole thing uh… telepathically?”

“Do you want an actual answer?”

Hank shrugged; “Sure. Why not.”

“There’s a manual control panel by the LED. For humans to toggle the… cosmetic functions on or off. Androids use it in each other or on themselves often, too. It’s an override, so that we do not have to keep a manual, constant check on the functions.”

“Yeah?”

“The one for the skin is the third from front.”

"Hmm…” 

Connor felt him slowly prod the area with his left fingernail. It caught onto the groove between components. He pressed down with his finger; “This one?”  
[admin]skngen off 

“It’s not funny, Hank.”

“You’re right. It’s not funny;” he touched the top of Connor’s head with two fingers - lightly. He slowly ran them down his temple and his cheek and the side of his jaw and came to a halt on his chin - and he pressed his thumb to the front of his chin. He whispered; “It’s... you.”

Hank’s hand held position - a suggestion for Connor to do the same - and then he leaned in - pressing a kiss onto Connor’s lips - a kiss Connor returned and continued. Hank whispered - warm breath against Connor’s lips; “Gods, you’re so… perfect.”

Connor stiffened. He pulled his head back; he lowered his gaze; he looked at his hand - frustratingly bare and small and artificial within Hank’s - he could hear his own overworking biocomponents hum - he could acknowledge his imperfect position - or the inaesthetic way Hank’s shirt hung over his smaller frame - things all brought to his attention now - elements Hank never mentioned [undesirable?].

“What’s wrong?”

“You’ve been saying that and variations of it ever since we started pursuing a romantic connection. I know humans are fond of their compliments, and for a human being called ‘perfect’ is highly appreciated, even with the knowledge that it is often an untruthful exaggeration. But…” pause; Connor’s gaze wandered upwards again - meeting the human’s. “I was _designed_ to be perfect, Hank. You telling me that, or any variation thereof, would be the same as me complimenting you on your ability to… grow hair;” he tilted his head. “It’s expected. It’s part of the design.”

“Mm;” Hank pressed his lips together; he raised his brows to emphasize speech; “You’d be surprised.”

“Well, you do not suffer from male pattern baldness.”

“Astute observation, Watson.”

Low quality human humour as to be expected... Connor pressed his lips together; he tilted his head further.

“I’m doing that bad, huh?” Hank offered a lopsided - apologetic - smile. 

“You don’t need to compliment me,” Connor tilted his head forward. “Only love me.” He straightened his position. “Nothing more.”

Hank inhaled deeply; he exhaled slowly; he smiled. Without breaking eye contact - he lifted Connor’s right hand to his lips. He kissed it. He smiled again. He trailed a volley of kisses up the inside of Connor’s arm - each one sending a novel array of sensations through the android’s sensors. He moved his head; he rested his cheek against his arm - his face now in the predicted path of the kisses. Hank continued forward - his lips pressing against Connor’s nose. He pressed his forehead against Connor’s.

He whispered; “I want to make love to you.”

“Like this?”

“Like this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may seem like the most random filler chapter ever but, /* _slithers off singing Trussssst in meeeeee_ */ /*immediately gets eaten by a mongoose*/


End file.
